


Death To The Ending

by honestlyfrance



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Captain America Sam Wilson, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Blip, Post-Endgame, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Sambucky Are Roomates In A Cabin In the Woods, Slow Burn, we all saw that trailer and went wild huh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:08:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 32,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22858990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honestlyfrance/pseuds/honestlyfrance
Summary: Retiring to a nice home somewhere in a disclosed location in the woods, Sam Wilson and Bucky Barnes have finally found a place to heal and call their own, only for it to be disrupted when the real world has come and called for them.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Sharon Carter & Sam Wilson, James "Bucky" Barnes/Sam Wilson
Comments: 9
Kudos: 8





	1. The House At The End Of The Dirthpath

There goes the screeching sound of rubble, the one where car tires roll over a dirt path at high speeds as if the road was theirs. Maybe it was theirs, maybe it wasn’t—the way down this dirt path was bumpy and full of turns until it led you to a straight and smoothened dirt road, to be surrounded with large trees of all sorts that serve as a canopy that allows a few sunbeams to escape and onto the vehicle and its view, but just as it seemed magical, it was dark and dangerous, for driving for over an hour down at the same direction with only catching glimpses of the sky and the lake down a few kilometers down could mean insanity, and possibly cowardice if you cannot stand the towering trees and the dimness of the woods. The sound of tires grazing upon dirt revibrated along with the radio system of the car until the driver had to switch to their AUX cord instead of the radio station when the sound became a ringing static. 

In the passenger seat of the black sedan, there vibrated a white box of treats, and in the back seat was a duffel bag precariously strapped in with the seatbelt. We’d only hear the loud volumes of pop songs and the occasional RnB music until the canopy let in more sunbeams until there was practically a sudden parting similar to the Red Sea, and now we see the clear blue skies and the greenery that almost engulfed the small dirt road that only small cars like these can go through.

The dirt path ended abruptly at a slight curve, and then we saw the car drive on anyways onto the grassy field where there were evident tire marks that had worn into the grass from way before. Maybe this car has been here before, but maybe it didn’t. The car pushed on all its might onto the elevated ground that was surrounded with small shrubs and trees until the trees and shrubs ended right there where the car had turned left, then we meet the glorious setting: an incredibly vast freshly-cut land where a blue and white-washed two-story Victorian home stood in the middle of it, a slope to our right that led to more land where it abruptly stopped at the growing trees, and to our left what seems to be the faraway horizon and a dock which lead to the lake, and opposite the lake which would be the trees and another road if you hadn’t taken the turn on the right which had a sign that said “PRIVATE PROPERTY: DO NOT TRESPASS” when you were at the intersection.

The car had pulled up facing the lake in the middle of the front yard, and there exiting the driver’s seat was Sharon Carter as we close up onto her appearance—she looked the same from before she came back from the Blip: young, but matured, and still had that focus of a predator. She walked down the grass as there were no pavement whatsoever, her boots thumping loudly and scrunching at the soil with the box of treats in her hands, looking around at the expanse of the home that was paired with a few willow trees that were grown best in the North, and this was our only clue as to where this mysterious gem lays. 

Sharon had walked up the short steps and set a hand on the doorknob, yet she stopped, perked her head at the silence, and waited for a moment. She suddenly swung the unlocked door open and let herself in the foyer, quietly shutting the door back closed as if she never entered in the first place. She flipped her coat and we caught a glimpse of her holster as she pulled out her gun, pointing it downwards at an angle as she walked along the wall of the foyer, her hair barely brushing against the few prints of art that hung on the wall. 

She reached past the foyer and now she stood where the doorway of the drawing-room and the living room/dining area meet; she entered the living room, stepping down and into the plush carpet as she looked around, checking the bay window as she felt a breeze come on her way. She then turned towards the island of a smaller dining area, setting down the box as she then made a beeline towards the sliding doors that led to the backyard, and there she had sighed in relief, putting her gun back into its holster as she closed the screen door, stepping down the steps as carefully as she could. 

She crossed her arms as she watched Sam Wilson trouble himself in grabbing the Captain America shield by the trees, his head bowed as if he was walking the walk of shame, and maybe it was as Sharon chuckled to herself, letting her strict demeanor vanish just for a moment.

Sam stood in the middle for a moment before throwing the shield upwards, seeing it spin midair as he caught it in his grasp. He did these a few times, reminiscing about the time when Steve Rogers, his predecessor as Captain America, had spent several of their training together into games and competitions as to who could do the most ridiculous tricks with the shield. Rogers had won when he balanced it on his knee like a seal and kicked it to the nearest wall. Sam couldn’t do that. He, instead, held onto the shield and threw his arm forward and threw the shield with much force and effort that it dented the tree he was aiming for. At that moment, he felt eyes on him and turned around, mirroring the grin Sharon had on her lips.

He went to grab the shield as she went back inside to retrieve the box, and no sooner or later had they sat on the steps of the porch and began to dig in into the box of blueberry muffins Sharon had bought back from the store in town, making small talk and laughing at each other’s stories.

Sharon licked her fingers before taking another muffin, licking on her lips as she raised her chin. “Been gone doing stuff back at the CIA,” she replied when Sam had asked her about her current work. Sam nodded diligently as he took a hungry bite out of his muffin. “It seems like problems pile up right after the next one. No biggie. We could handle it,” she chewed for a moment before speaking with half a mouth full. “Just some crime organizations I feel are common enough for us to handle it.”

Sam snickered, looking down on his muffin as he swiped crumbs away from the corner of his lips. “You mean _us,_ you mean the everyday heroes.”

Sharon drew out a hum as she watched the trees sway in the breeze. “Don’t act like you weren't a regular hero once upon a time,” she nodded, taking another bite. “You're a superhero as, uh, what we call it,”

“Oh,” he jerked his head at that, his eyes gleaming. “So, I'm what you call a superhero now? Please,” he knocked his fist on the shield that leaned on the steps beside him. “I'm still working on the shield, don't let your hopes get too high. Besides, you too are a superhero in my book,”

Sharon snorted, shaking her head as Sam nodded happily as he swallowed the last bite of his muffin, grabbing another one from the box. A comfortable silence washed over them, and Sharon continued to watch the willow trees in the backyard, already forgetting the half-eaten muffin in her hands. She sighed as Sam was already halfway through his food, blissfully ignorant in her presence. That’s all he wanted—a sense of normalcy in this post-Blip world. It seemed barren in this field of people, and you wouldn’t even know them even if you’ve met them lifetimes ago.

Sharon sighed heavily. “Pepper called,” her expression faltered into a worry. “She's… She's assigned me to…”

Sam hummed. “Assigned or called for?”

Sharon chuckled, running a free hand through her hair. “What’s the difference? She wants me to oversee the Avengers,” she choked through it, meeting his eyes. “Not, like, lead them,” she murmured, her fingers fidgeting with her lip. “But, to oversee the ones that have fallen out, the ones who… went civilian, and just check up on those who have a chance…” her pause worried Sam. “...to get back to the real world,”

Sam looked away and out into the backyard, his eyes set hard on the horizon where the grass met the huge wall of trees. He nodded as he said: “Isn't this the real world?”

“Sam,” her tone was authoritative, but she seemed breathless. “This is a private property your sister let you borrow for a few weeks and it's been three months since you've last step foot outside. You two can't stay here forever. I have to go and work,” she looked away in disbelief before forcing herself to look into his faraway eyes. “I can’t keep buying your groceries for you like some errand boy,”

Sam turned to look at her, his eyebrows creasing together. “You're not an errand boy,” he pushed. “Besides—” he looked away. “—we have stock to keep me and the super-soldier lasting for at least every two weeks,”

“Yeah, that I bring in case you two didn't go into town. Again. What would your neighbors say?”

Another wash of silence overcame them, and the muffins seem inedible now with the tension in the air. Sharon was right, but Sam thought it was too soon to say it. He can’t keep hiding forever, it’s unreasonable and impractical. With the new title he was given by Steve Rogers, it just seemed like it was too much to bear, but to everyone close enough to see it, it was the best decision Rogers ever made. Was it? Sam wanted to ask, but he knew it too—the best decision Steve Rogers ever made was trusting _him_ , and Sam made sure to not let that backfire.

Sam tried to take another bite out of his muffin, but he felt tired, so he said: “What did you say?”

Sharon furrowed her eyebrows. “Should I say something?” Sam nodded in reply. “I said yes, of course. Who else was going to do it?”

“Literally anyone as a last resort,” he nudged her on her elbow as she took a hesitant bite of her food. “I just want to know if you want it. It's a huge responsibility, and overseeing us is tough, seeing that the rest went underground and unbothered…”

Sharon straightens her back, raising her chin as she turned to meet him in the eyes, nodding. “I'll be fine, Wilson. I want you to know this.”

They sat in comfortable silence as they felt the breeze, just blessed to be alive and well. There's a sense of danger in the air, one that warns sailors in the night, but they don’t worry about that right now. They were here, existing, and that's all that matters, is it not?

They stayed silent for now, and it was as if they went back to their usual Tuesday morning routine: sitting down on the porch steps as they take in the view of the wide backyard in quiet content, taking as much companionship they could get from the other as long as the time lets them

Inside and up the stairwell we meet a lounge area that overlooks the backyard and three doors, one that leads to a study room, another that leads to what used to be Bucky Barnes's room that was turned into a guest room, and the last one down the hallway was Sam and Bucky's shared bedroom. It was the room in the corner of the house, overlooking the front yard and the murky trees, as well as the slope and the lonely expanse of the woods. 

In that room we could practically hear the sound of a pin dropping, as Bucky sat on the hardwood floorboards in a criss-cross position, his breaths slow and deep, and he seems to be meditating, occasionally being disturbed by a white cat that once in a while touches him with his paw. Bucky's only reaction to that was knitting his eyebrows together in frustration, but it only ever faded soon enough.

He wouldn't admit it, but when he passed by the kitchen to grab a snack as a late breakfast, he overheard what Sharon had to say, about her job at the CIA, her being offered a "job" as an overseer to the remnants of the Avengers, and Bucky was just so baffled because it didn't seem like Sam saw what Sharon had to say in the fine print because Sharon speaks of her missions as if she doesn't care about her job, as if nothing is holding her back now to speak about her classified missions, and maybe it's because of that, and perhaps she doesn't work for the CIA anymore; Pepper Stark used to be the overseer for the Avengers, and Sharon being told to do this for her when Pepper could do this herself, could mean a lot about the direction of their career, as Pepper taking what used to be the old Avengers Mantle, specifically Tony’s, perhaps and Sharon taking what used to be Nick Fury's job.

The world seemed to just push them towards danger, does it not? With the way the world is just screaming at Bucky to move, he just wants to plant himself on the ground and urge the world to move without him, because it's not like he was an important factor to the plans of the universe, and if anything, he was just a bystander who happened to be along its path. 

He seemed to spiral, as his head became barren of thoughts and his memories left him. Nothing was happening in his mind, nor had he ever let it when he's calming himself down, but these past few days seemed to startle him often as if the universe just didn't let Bucky have his peace.

"We have to go back to the real world, Alpine," Bucky whispered, a low creaky voice leaving him. The cat didn't stir or perk up from nuzzling on the ground, rolling around itself. "Yeah, I'm not a fan either,"

He took a deep breath out, but it didn't do justice. He was stiff as a board, and he could feel the thick bead of sweat roll down from his neck and down his tank top. It felt like if he stayed still for any longer, he'd be pulled down by the floorboards and never come back out. The terrifying thing was, maybe he wanted to never come back out.

“Al, did you hear that?” his tightened his eyes shut, shuddering. “Sharon came back to the real world. I wonder if it's our turn next…”

It hurts, in addition to the emotional turmoil of the world post-Blip, it reeks at the seams because it's been soaked in pain and burden and, of course, no one wanted that, no one wanted to live in a world where disappearing from existence for five years and coming back from it was _just normal_ . It didn't seem right, and it didn't seem right to forget that too. Bucky had his fair share of coming back to a world with no sense of familiarity, and only ever hearing the words: “We won,” was too surreal. Yes, we did, but, how? How did the world win without _me_? It seemed selfish to think so but to come from a time where everyone depended on the other only to come back to a different timeline where no one wanted your companionship and urge you to become independent alone, it takes your heart bit by bit and into pieces.

Bucky’s breathing began to become shaken and difficult, as if his thoughts choked him from the inside, preventing him to claim that relief from the stress he’s been trying to achieve from the moment Sam Wilson and him left for here (Louisiana? They wouldn’t tell you.) just three months ago. Funny. With Sam, Bucky didn’t realize time could fly by so fast—for Bucky, every day felt like knowing Sam all over again, right from scratch, while knowing him for a lifetime. It was just a mix of fantasy and comfort for Bucky, being here, almost alone, almost okay. 

Alas, the idea of losing that idea, it pained Bucky, and if he was just going to lose all of this at the end, then he wouldn’t have gone and moved into some house in the middle of the woods for that pain. He’d stay home. He’d just deal with his burdens there.

Constant tapping jerked Bucky away from his thoughts. He raised his head towards the window that faced the slope, furrowing his eyebrows in frustration at his cat fighting with a bird that nestled itself on the window garden. The bird was small and blue, staring at the cat that continued to hiss at the bird. Bucky knocked on the window, startling the cat for a moment before Alpine began trying to get to the bird quite aggressively. Bucky just tapped on the window before began motioning for the bird to go away. It didn’t, but it gave Bucky a new thing to focus his energy on.

It was nice.

In the next scene, we cut towards the dining area that had French windows that gave a view of the dark slope that led to the woods, and if it was just that it was nighttime that caused the woods to appear more sinister, we wouldn’t know. The woods seemed to morph as Sam, Sharon, and Bucky began to set the table with plates, utensils, and a feast; if they knew that the woods could do that, to seem as if it was hiding monsters, they weren’t bothered by it. The modern industrial style chandelier was lit above the table, giving the room a light orange hue that added color to the white illumination of the kitchen lights from across the room. They made small talk before they even sat down, and as they were halfway into their “feast fit for a king and his super-soldier,” they found talking even easier as the midnight lamp burned.

Sharon twirled her fork on her plate. "The book doing you good, Buck?" She then took a forkful of spaghetti in her mouth.

Bucky hummed as he swiped a thumb at the corner of his lips. "Don’t get me started on it,"

Sam pointed a spoon at Sharon. "He talked my ear off for three hours," Sam was deadpan as Bucky raised his hands in surprise and betrayal. "I wasn’t able to get anything done,"

Sharon raised an eyebrow. "Oh yeah, you’re in luck," she rubbed her hands together menacingly as she faced Bucky who sat across from her. "I just found the second volume of the Sherlock book you wanted,"

Sam gaped. "No!" He dramatically set a hand on his heart. "We just watched the movies!"

"It was a fucking disaster," Bucky leaned into the table as he nodded. "We watched almost every version, and the comedy,"

Sharon gasped, laughing. "No," she breathed.

Bucky nodded enthusiastically as Sam groaned, saying: "Barnes kept being a prissy," he glared playfully at the man who merely shrugged.

Bucky's eyebrows raised. "Uh, I believe you were the one who got excited and disappointed when they got a medical assumption wrong," he playfully chided, setting a hand beneath his chin as he smirked giddily.

Sam stared blankly at him, deadpanning, "You know Sherlock is an asshole,"

Sharon chewed on her food. "Everyone knows that he’s an asshole," she nodded.

Bucky laughed along with Sam, glancing at the seat beside him. He gasped as he yelled, “Alpine, no!”

Sitting at the seat beside Bucky was Alpine the cat, scratching at the table cloth before him, and he didn’t seem bothered with Bucky’s constant scolding.

Sharon dropped her utensils as she outstretched her hands towards the cat. “Aw, how cute,”

Sam groaned, clenching his jaw. “Don’t encourage the cat. I’ve lost two linens and five china bowls because of him,”

Bucky turned to Sam. “He’s a cat, you must forgive him,”

As Bucky picked up Alpine with his metal hand and set him on the ground, Sharon had fiddled with her hands. Sam glanced at her and knew what she was trying to formulate. Sam looked at Bucky and then jerked his head subtly towards her. Bucky caught on and settled his hands in his lap as he nodded.

“Yes, Sharon?” Bucky seemed to be confused at his own words, making Sharon and Sam laugh at the face he made. “You can speak if you want…”

Sharon glanced at Sam, and taking a deep breath, she carefully spoke, “Mrs. Stark has offered me a job as the, uh, to oversee the Avengers,”

Bucky nods vehemently, and it was so obvious that he was trying his best to bottle up his emotions about the news. He cleared his throat, nodding as he tried to figure out where he should set his eyes on. The table fell into silence, and even Alpine the cat has gotten silent as he stared up at his owner with wide eyes, as if knowing what was to ensue. Bucky seemed to fight something inside of him, already exhausted from his internal struggles.

Bucky nodded, his eyes set on Sharon as if a parent to their child who had sent some unsettling news. “I’m happy for you,” and at the moment he heard his raspy and croaky voice, his happy demeanor disappeared and was replaced by a terrified one. “Really. I am. I’m…” his eyes watered, his lips pouting. “I’m proud of you, Shar,”

“You don’t sound too happy,” Sharon whispered as she stretched a hand towards his hand, but he flinched as if he was burned. His elbows sided against the edge of the table as he nodded absentmindedly, looking over at the cat that stared at him. She continued, “Talk to me, Barnes,” she hissed. “I want to know what you think.”

“I’m proud of you.”

“Then tell me more.”

Sam, sitting at the head of the table, began to glance between the two of his friends, losing his appetite by the minute. He set his hands on the table, now looking over at Bucky’s faraway look with soft eyes. Bucky shuddered before sighing, meeting Wison’s eyes before holding his gaze on Sharon.

Sharon shook her head. “This is for me. It’s not for you.”

“I know. I’m no Avenger.”

Sharon gaped at him, shaking her head as she leaned forward towards Bucky. “Bucky— Barnes,” she spoke, almost forceful. “Anyone who had taken part in the fight in the airport is an Avenger. Clint Barton thought of you as an Avenger. That… war with Thanos,” she outstretched her open palm towards him, but he didn’t take it. “This doesn’t have to do with being an Avenger. Not anymore, I swear by it,”

Bucky shook his head slowly, meeting Sam’s eyes. “Steve wouldn’t like that,”

“Fuck Steve,” Sharon bellowed, her grip on the table tightened. “Fuck him. This is _us_ three,” her breathing became raspy and jagged as she spoke. “This is something _outside_ of him. We own this—it’s not theirs,”

“But— It’s The Avengers.”

“I’m only checking up on them,” Sharon shook her head.

“Are you checking us up right now?”

“I always check up on you two because you’re my friends.” Sharon forced.

Bucky clenched his fists open and close. “You don’t know a damn thing about me!”

Sam instinctively placed his hand on Bucky’s, and for a moment, Bucky’s defenses had disappeared. Sam ran his fingers across Bucky’s knuckles quite gently, as if the touch was barely a flutter. Sharon’s eyes watered subtly as she tried to get her breathing to steady, but Bucky didn’t know what to do, only ever staring at Sharon as his face contorted into one of absolute obliviousness to his surroundings, as if mindless. Sam grabbed Sharon’s hand in his other one, and she instinctively intertwined their fingers.

“You’re allowed to be mad,” Sam spoke to Sharon, his voice gentle. Sam turned to Bucky. “You’re _allowed_ to be mad. This… This ain’t it,”

Bucky’s breath hitched in his throat as his eyes settled on Sam’s face, and Bucky had to break in the inside because he didn’t feel like he was worthy to be at the end of something so sweet and gentle, and so fierce and strong at the same time, but with that look, Sam had put on made it possible for Bucky to realize he is worthy of things like this: like Sharon, and like Sam, like friends. Bucky licked his lips but bowed his head, gently twisting his hand so Sam’s palm can rest and lock against his. It felt nice, to be like this, holding hands with each other. It feels solid and true.

Bucky nodded, his eyes gentle on Sharon. “I’m happy for you. I am,”

Sharon smiled, nodding. “You know out of all people I wouldn’t betray you two, but only if necessary,”

Bucky chuckled slightly. “Same,”

Bucky was the first to let go, his left hand buried in his lap as he took his fork and pierced the piece of steak he had cut prior, taking it all in his mouth as he kept his eyes on Sam and his furrowed eyebrows, humming in content as he scooped up some more mashed potatoes from the serving bowl and onto his plate. Sharon had caught on, and began to twirl her fork into her pasta, taking the huge forkful of spaghetti. Sam watched as the two dined in peace, occasionally complimenting the other for their part of the cooking; Sam took a sip of his red wine before digging into his steak, cutting it into smaller pieces, and everything fell back into a balance—the smooth kind, and they began small talk, and they were smiling. There was something new in the air, one that they couldn’t vocalize as they were too deep into their joy to bother to acknowledge it.

Bucky dropped his utensils on his plate, making a loud clanging sound. "I'm sorry. It's my fault," he met eyes with Sharon as he spoke as softly as he could. 

"It's okay Bucky,” Sharon nodded, her voice just as soft as he smiled at him. “I didn't know how you'd react,"

If it were the case, Bucky would’ve run away the moment Sharon had said that she had something to say, but it wasn’t the case. He had planted himself like a tree and told the world to move without him. Bucky doesn’t revolve around the world and the world doesn’t revolve around him. He is free to walk as he pleases, it’s one of the things he’s been trying to work on within himself. He is free to have emotions against people and people are free to have emotions against him, and that’s the beauty of it.

The three of them just feel, and that’s okay.

The sun had streamed in and past the white curtains the next morning, letting in sunbeams into the house as the sounds of chirping birds and running water became an orchestra of the woods. As soon as the sun had risen, Sharon had left and driven off to the Rambeau house at the other stretch of road; the lot of them practically see each other as neighbors despite the distance, even Sharon is seen as a neighbor despite living in New York City or who knows where.

Sam Wilson was outside again, bolted right after finishing his hearty breakfast and out into the backyard with the Captain America shield. Captain America shield—it sounds weird. Whenever Sam calls it the “Captain America shield” it was as if he wasn’t acknowledging that it was his now; Steve Rogers gave him this and Sam sees it as some sort of memorial to the image of what used to be Captain America, but Sam knows he can’t do that, that he can’t let this imagery die. So now here we are, a baseball ball in his hand as he threw it into the air, using the shield to throw it against the tree successfully. The ball bounced right back at him after ricocheting up into the air, and it felt like he was some kid again playing ball by himself because his sister wouldn’t want to. 

Sam perks up at a loud noise, and he looks back to the house to see the kitchen windows wide open, revealing a tousled Bucky who seems to be doing the dishes quite noisily. He’s done this before, Sam knows this. Whenever Bucky wanted attention, he would do most things with as much noise as possible to be irritating; it was a bad habit, Bucky knows, but making noise was the only way he knew how to alert someone without much extravagance. 

Bucky nodded at Sam from the window, and Sam only stalked closer until he was already at the porch; Bucky had closed back the windows and is currently struggling with closing them as Sam held onto the frame quite strongly, and it seemed ridiculous to continue to fight and bicker since Bucky was a super soldier who can easily shut the windows close with an outside force, but apparently, Bucky wanted a fair fight since they’ve been at this for a solid two minutes, just stagnantly pulling the windows back closed or open. 

Sooner or later, Bucky had let Sam open the windows. Bucky revealed himself to be a mess, his hair sticking in absurd ways contrary to his well-kept hair during breakfast and his shirt now wet from leaning against the running sink. Sam grunted at Bucky, shooting pointed looks, but Bucky only pouted at Sam quite innocently despite the sound of water being the loudest thing in the house next to the electro-swing music Bucky played in the living area; water spotted at them as their faces were merely inches apart, and neither seemed to feel the proximity as they saw it was just natural to get this close.

“Why are you such a grumpy cat today?” Sam hissed at Bucky, but it sounded as if Sam was just speaking to Alpine the cat, all kissy noises and childish talk. “What’s gotten into you? I’m done with this, Jamie, and don’t let it slip that you were practically rolling in your bed last night,”

“I can’t help that I think things late at night, Tom,” Bucky said, matching Sam’s voice of words. “Sometimes I just lie in bed and need to react to my thoughts!”

Sam sighed dramatically. “Well, it’s been a good while since you’ve tossed and turned like that. I sincerely thought you were going to fall off your bed,” he almost laughed but reminded himself he was supposed to pretend he was mad. “I had to brace myself for impact!”

Bucky comically sputtered. “I’m an active sleeper!”

“No, you’re not! I had to brace for second-hand impact, that shit’s difficult.”

Bucky gasped, a hand covering his mouth before retracting it quite exaggeratingly. “The ghost of Rogers wouldn’t approve of your language,”

Sam put his hand through the window to ruffle Bucky’s hair and poke his cheek. He set his hands on his hips as he spoke, “Rogers would agree with me, first of all, that something is going on, and second of all, it’s because of you that I’m starting to curse every time I open my mouth. I swear to God, you’re one influential fuck,”

“I believe the term you’re looking for is fuckstick, as I say regularly,” and Bucky seemed proud of the way he said it. “And, no, nothing much is going on with me, as you saw from the previous days,”

“Yesterday happened.”

“I don’t know her .”

“She’s a grown woman and she doesn’t need you to baby her.”

Bucky motioned towards the sink. “Oh! Look at this! I have so many dishes to wash!” he then caught his eyes on his chore, and was appalled by it. “Oh God, is this the saucepans from last night?”

Sam snickered. “Whose grand idea was it to wash it in the morning instead of cleaning them the actual night just because they wanted to read a book?”

Bucky gasped. “You don’t understand! I grew up with those books!”

Sam firmly urged, “She can make her own decisions, and she’s good at that,”

“I know. But sometimes that’s not the case. I mean, she trusted me, out of all people.”

Sam snapped his fingers, making Bucky perk up and chuckle. “Exactly. We live in a world of crazy women who would trust us with their lives but aren’t afraid of betraying you for the betterment of the public. I think we should just let that be,”

Bucky smiled, then shook his head as he lowered his voice. “Something passes and goes, and it’s a haze, and I’m just trying to figure everything out. Sharon just startled me, made me remember I’m still living. But I’m truly proud of her,”

“I am too,” Sam smiled.

Bucky doesn’t respond to that, and even if he did Sam wouldn’t approve of it. Bucky nodded and continued to do the dishes, turning on the knob to lessen the water pressure, and Sam took that as his cue to leave and continue doing his chores at his part of the house.

Sam took the shield once more and planted his left foot firmly on the ground, practically digging the sole of his shoe into the soil, and with a twist of a torso, he threw the shield with all his arm and force. He wasn’t particularly aiming at anything, and if anything he was figuring out the twist of his body. So the shield lay there on the grass, had revibrated the tree with such force that it made a thunk and its leaves shook, a few falling from the branches themselves. Sam heaved as he began his, what he would call, Walk Of Shame. It wasn’t shameful exactly, but there was a sense of embarrassment in it that Sam just forces himself to anchor onto. Sam is the new Captain America, so he feels like he should act like it, despite every fiber of his being telling him not to. He knew that he shouldn’t have to change himself to please the people who aren't pleased with the situation, but there’s that weight with the title that comes along it like a packaged deal, and now it all made sense; the burden that Captain Steve Rogers carries was not of his birth name but what he had decided to call himself, and that would be quite difficult to separate, and quite difficult to make the people know. 

Have you not realized it you wouldn’t know, but people don’t realize that Captain America and the person who bore that title were two very separate people: one was a stage name, and the other was the whole package deal of righteousness. Rogers saw the shield as a burden once, and now look at what has happened with him: he preferred a world where he wouldn’t have to fight under a pseudonym so he lived as the person as he always was. Sam was baffled and frustrated at Rogers, as everyone else was, but there’s that empathy he has for Rogers, one that grows and weakens at the same time. The burden was all too sweet, Sam must admit, but he’s been having his burdens for so long that the shield and the title seemed just like another task to tick off on the list.

Be a representation of righteousness, justice, and goodness? Check; Sam could admit that. 

Although the burden, so sweet and relieving at the same time, can disguise itself as a dagger in the night, and Sam could recall so many nights where he spends the nights staring at the shield just wondering: How worthy and I compared to Rogers? The comparison wasn’t fair, that was true and he knows it, but there’s that constant conflict that starts a fire in him that just seems too addicting not to notice.

Sam grunts and then exhales sharply as he danced in place, stepping right to left as he hyped himself up as his eyes set themselves on the faraway tree that stood at the edge of the greenery. He took a mighty swing backward and threw the shield with much force than before and was able to hit the base of the trunk, grazing it as it settled on the ground like a crashing plane. Sam was left heaving and shaking as he watched the shield lie still, and for a moment Sam had forgotten the shield was an inanimate object, so used to seeing the shield come back to Rogers that it didn’t seem like one to lie so still and unused.

Sam knew how to use the shield. Every Avenger had their try and tricks with the shield, so why wasn’t Sam able to do his?

It wasn’t Thor’s Mjolnir, but the way it was used to be a beacon of freedom was unparalleled. People would see a weapon, but essentially, it was defense, because Captain America’s first tactic was, and always will be, defense. Sam had a few more opinions on that but he knew if he wanted to please the people, he shouldn’t be using his guns—it was silly-talk, so Sam told Bucky he wanted holsters just like the man’s new suit, and he got them.

There was a sudden crashing sound as something white zoomed past him, barely missing his head. Sam only perked up at the sound and turned to look around. He turned back to his shield for protection only to see remnants of what used to be their China plate. Sam groaned at it, and no sooner or later had Bucky had met Sam on the field. The man was fuming, his hands in fists and his chin raised high; Sam had his fair share of studying the Winter Soldier—this was a tactic, to make himself look bigger, so Sam mirrored Bucky and puffed out his chest until they were practically noses together, clenching jaws and staring intensely into the other’s eyes.

Bucky broke under the gaze. “My Captain, oh, Captain,” he whispered, his voice gentle and sweet as he set a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Don’t push yourself and be afraid to ask for help,” Sam nodded, and Bucky’s metal hand settled stiffly on the man’s shoulder; Bucky’s other hand instinctively pressed itself against Sam’s neck, as if ushering him forward. “Steve sucked at his first tries, so believe me when I say you’ve done this so well without any form of a serum,”

Sam swayed a bit, feeling all his senses leave him as he felt the bile rise in his throat. He nodded despite this, feeling at ease as he fell in Bucky’s touch, nuzzling into the crook of the man’s neck as he hummed in exhaustion. Bucky didn’t know what to do with his hands for a moment before quickly wrapping his arms around Sam’s torso, supporting an arm around his waist to prevent them from plummeting to the ground, but maybe Bucky would like that, to just lie down for a moment, existing in each other’s arms. That would be a nice break.

“I don’t know what to do if she’s gone,” Bucky gasps as he buries his face into Sam’s hoodie.

Sam carefully wrapped his arms around Bucky’s hips quite lazily as they swayed for a moment in each other’s arms. Sam hummed before his breathing faltered for a moment as if he was trying his best to control it. Bucky let go of Sam as he looked into those brown eyes, seeing something broken and burdened with pain.

Sam’s eyes glazed as he nodded, clenching his jaw. “Neither did I.”

Bucky lowered his eyes before steadying them into Sam’s. “I’m sorry about her. I… I didn’t know her but…”

Sam shook his head, straightening his posture as he let a tear pass. “I almost forgot her for a moment there,” he whispered. “She shouldn’t have that.”

Bucky nodded, and pulled Sam back into his arms, wishing to protect the man he has come to care for so deeply. It was good that Bucky was just naturally loyal, but to be loyal to Sam? It was like a servant to his king, a soldier to his General, Achilles to his Patroclus—it was always worth it. There will never be a time and alternate reality where these two do not care for each other, either in shoulder bumping, hand-holding, or snarkiness, hatred was just not written to their name. Bucky Barnes: loyal to a fault and Sam Wilson: caring to a fault; it was as if the universe had made them for each other.

Sam gasped as his breathing faltered. “Oh my God, I almost forgot about her,” he curled his fingers into Bucky’s shirt as his eyes widened.

“Tell me about her.”

“Na… Natasha. She was the best.”

Bucky pulled back, and he graced a hand over Sam’s cheek. “Tell me more,”

They then sat down on the porch with their shoulders touching together as Alpine had settled by their feet. Sam and Bucky talked for a while before they settled into a comfortable silence, just taking in the breeze and the scenery they had called home. It was only until it was past noon that they decided to get started on lunch, finally feeling that tiny piece of peace they came for just for a moment.

That night there was a new blanket of odd in the air, as the ghastly breeze kept shaking the loose windows on the ground floor, but it was the good kind of odd, the one that you'd always explore despite everything else that was sane. It was the kind the two liked, as they slept in their respective beds, cuddled in their blankets, sharing glances at each other from across the room, as if they wanted a change to happen between them until they finally let sleep take over. 

The fresh smell of cookies wafted through the air the next morning, engulfing the atmosphere of the living area with ungodly sweets of all kinds: if ice cream and candy had a smell, that is. The T.V. was on and displayed numerous video files from a USB, the cursor going up and down rapidly as Bucky and Sharon, who had come back just as dawn had broken out, kept fighting over the remote, the latter wrestling Bucky’s with her spare arm as she flicked through the movie files despite the buttons Bucky tampered with.

Sam had just woken up from his deep slumber, alert and had kicked himself over with the fact that he woke up past nine. It didn’t seem right to him to wake up so late, but Bucky had praised hallelujah ( or, what he seemed appropriate at the time ) when he had woken up before Sam much to the man’s ignorance. As Sam walked downstairs, he stood quite aback at the end of the staircase as he took in the sight of Bucky and Sharon playing around as if they hadn’t been fighting just two nights ago. Something softened in Sam when he saw the sight, with what the gentleness Bucky carried in their play-fight, obviously trying not to hurt Sharon as much as he could; yet, something hardened inside Sam when he saw how close the two were, how Bucky was practically chest to back with Sharon and all laughing quietly as Sharon tried to explain the movie she was struggling to play.

Sharon caught sight of Sam and laughed, exhaling: “I made breakfast and let myself in. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No,” Sam shook his head, despite his face being dead of expression, but when Sharon had smiled so widely as Bucky glared at the back of her head, Sam had let a smile slip in his lips quite naturally. “No. Not at all. We gave you a key, you should use it,”

“Duh,” Sharon shrugged, pushing Bucky’s face away as he comically tried to grab onto the remote. “I practically live here. I’m like your grandchild that comes and goes only for the food,” she jerked her head to the wooden and glass coffee table filled with treats. “I let myself into your oven too,”

“What won’t you do in this house?” Sam asked as he shook his head, making his walk quite stiffly towards the kitchen, seeing a plate arranged just for him filled with bacon, toast, and sunny-side eggs, just the way he liked them: runny in the middle but brown at the edges. He took a fork and dug right into the eggs. “I’m still wonderin’ why you aren’t paying rent around here,”

“Yeah,” Bucky was muffled by Sharon’s hand as he crossed his arms. “The house isn’t going to fix itself,”

Sharon made kissy faces at Bucky as Alpine sat in her lap, purring at her. “It did. The first time I came here, the roof was practically beams and shingles, now look at it: I’ve never seen anything more than represents you, Barnes.”

“What? Gorgeous?”

“No. Old Victorian.”

Bucky smacked Sharon in the head with a throw pillow as she gasped in laughter. She threw another pillow at him until they began to hit each other in rhythm. Sam watched the two from the island as he practically gobbled up his food, already dreading the minutes that were slipping from his grasp. Time was one thing Sam didn’t have no matter how many times Bucky has told him that “they all had the time in the world.” No, they didn’t, it seemed to Sam, as he got up and set his empty plate by the sink, already grabbing the shield that was leaning against the side of the fridge that was right beside the screen door.

“Wait,” Sharon called out. “Sammy! You were supposed to watch with us! It’s Thursday Movie night!”

Bucky perked up at the moment the screen door smacked against the frame, losing balance as Sharon hit him with a pillow. Bucky recovered and glared at Sharon before hitting her just as hard at the side. Alpine hopped off of her as the game between the two intensified. Alpine the cat reached the porch door but simply scratched at the door before meowing loudly from the inside the house, wanting to go outside. There were no cat doors for him, and that was the one thing Bucky and Sam failed to build when they had brought in Alpine into their home. 

The door opened, but Alpine watched as one of his other parents opened the door for him. Alpine sneaked through the small opening of the door Sam had made as the man quietly shut the door and had successfully drowned out his friends' voices. Alpine hopped down the steps and into the grass to who knows where; Alpine knows his way around here, it was fine. Sam carried the shield in his arm and strapped it on as he stood beneath a willow tree, the leaves hanging right above him. He hyped himself by dancing in steps, stretching his arms before they accelerated and he began to hit the leaves, executing some fighting techniques Natasha Romanoff had taught him.

With a swift flick of his elbow, he raised a kick as he pressed his fingers gently on the ground with his torso falling against gravity before swiftly bringing his body back up to roundhouse kick the leaves that were in his line of sight. He continued to do this routine while using the shield to block off any leaves that were too near him as if blocking bullets that were shooting at him. Sam jumped and contorted his body to fit the shield midair, and as his feet landed on the ground with such grace, he pressed his right arm across his chest as if to shield himself as his left raised instinctively as if it were holding a gun. Sam heaved after all this, breathless to an extent, cursing at himself as he reminded himself to stretch more before doing any more strenuous activities. He dropped his arm as he set it on his hip, looking back towards the porch, as if afraid of anyone who tried watching him. He was catching his breath when he saw Alpine cleaning himself beside Sam, caught in his dilemma to not notice the creature who could’ve been crushed at any moment during the routine. 

“Cat,” Sam called towards Alpine. “You don’t think that was bad, was it?”

Alpine continued to lick his legs.

Sam sighed, clicking his tongue as his foot tapped anxiously against the ground. He nodded, but his gaze was far away. “Yeah, you’re right. I kind of lost my footing at the first try,” he readjusted the shield on his arm as he took steps back away from the cat and the willow tree, his knees bent as he readied himself by doing a few burpees. “Yup,” he grunted, doing his warm-ups more gracefully this time. “Need to look for my footing,”

He closed his eyes as he stood on his toes, rocking on his ankles as he gathered his breathing. He then took a few steps backward as he tried to imagine himself in a situation: he charged at whatever was in front of him with a swing with the shield, kneed up the groin with his left, and hitting what was supposed to be the throat with the shield; he then executed the routine he had difficulty with—he kicked upwards as his body went downwards diagonally, his fingertips resting gently on the soil, and as fast as it came, as fast as his fingers supported his torso coming back to an upright position. Swinging a right kick to the side, his face contorted to one of frustration as he yelled out a grunt as he punched the air in a frenzy that somehow still made sense.

Sam let out an overwhelming scream until he was on his knees, his head between them as he broke into a sob, his body shaking as Alpine watched curiously from the sidelines. The cat quietly meowed before laying his head on the ground, watching Sam with wide eyes.

“Al, I can’t… I can’t do it,” he whispered before hissing inwards. His body shook under the pressure in his heart that had ached so long to be released, and to think after all this time spent healing in this fantasy-like reality in the woods, he still didn’t feel any less bad than he was when he arrived. “He’s… It’s too much,”

Have you ever seen Rogers, you'd also feel that weight he carries around with his shield, the same burden that seemed to just seep through into other people as if it was a virus. At the moment Sam and Bucky agreed to run away from the general public and into a nice cozy home within the seclusion of the woods, it felt as if it was the perfect escape from Steve Rogers, and to finally see that the man was just going to haunt him terrified Sam. The grief that Sam had bottled inside of him for so long had finally burst, flowing from the seams as Sam let his forehead rest against the ground, tears flowing down his cheeks as he hiccuped. It felt ridiculous to cry alone like this, but what other choice did he have?

As Sam had calmed down, his hysterics turning into quiet tears, one question rang in his ears: Was he worth it?

Sam moaned in pain as he gritted his teeth, hissing as he unstrapped the shield and set it aside, pushing it as far away from him as possible, making Alpine jerk awake and hiss at the shield. Alpine climbed upon Sam’s back and began to doze off there as Sam gathered his breathing in silence, the breeze sweeping away at the leaves of the willow tree as our angel finally fell from his steeple. 

Sam raised his head, Alpine jumping from his back as Sam finally sat up fully. He sniffled, his eyes red and droopy as he watched the leaves beside him sway, the sun glinting at the crown of the tree like a halo. He nodded as he watched this play out, his lips turning to a frown. “I fucked up,” he whispered under his breath, shuddering as he sighed. “I… I’m not…”

But maybe he was. 

Sam sat silent for a moment, his eyes watching the other willow trees from far away with a soft gaze as if the horizon would break if Sam would harden his gaze the slightest bit.

He had his senses back, shuddering as he picked up the shield, repeating this chant he tells himself: You are worth it, you are worth it, you are worth it. He was. Everyone has worth, no more than the less; it was just a matter of realizing it. The instance where Sam forgets about it was strikingly in character and out of his grasp—he knew what’s good for him, and that’s the problem. There’s this conflict inside of him that beats the other up: one fights with his problems and the other fights with his beliefs, creating a clash of swords that tasted like sandpaper at the back of one’s throat.

Sam stood up, dusting off dirt from his shorts as Alpine meowed at Sam; he picked up the cat and placed him inside his hoodie pocket, the cat squirming around as his head stuck out of one opening and the tail twirled in the other opening. Sam’s eyes settled on the shield, stopping himself before he picked it up. There was that same burden, but maybe it wasn’t a burden; what if it was just the burden of the people and not the name? If only he could block those noises out, Sam can finally find peace by calling the shield _his_. It was his; when was it safe to call the shield his?

Sam picked it up, flipping it over and over as Alpine tried to grab it with his paw. Sam chuckled as he scrutinized the design of the paint job. “Yeah, it’s fantastic, ain’t it?” he murmured, his eyebrows knitting together. “And it’s so easy to use…” he strapped it on his arm, and it looked so similar to a reflex. “...it’s best to ask who hasn’t used it,”

Sam looked back towards the porch and saw the faraway silhouettes of Bucky and Sharon, and as Sam walked closer, he saw that the two were lounging on separate lounge chairs with each a glass of iced tea. Sharon fanned herself with a hand fan as she had on her sunglasses. Bucky immediately sat up from his and scooted over to give space for Sam, and it was quite wide and could fit two people as their shoulders touch, but the way Bucky just beckoned Sam with nothing but soft demanding eyes could make Sam want to give up almost everything. Bucky would; he probably has. 

Bucky set down his iced tea on the ground and gently pulled Sam down beside him. Sam nestled onto Bucky’s arm that rested behind Sam’s head. Sam silently glanced at Bucky for a moment to figure out what the man was supposed to do, but Bucky simply glanced at anywhere else, his eyes fixing themselves wherever seemed appropriate.

Sharon cleared her throat, breaking the tension. “Your shield shouldn’t be here. It’s time for rest,”

Bucky raised his eyebrows, turning his head that his lips were practically brushing against Sam’s ear, so Bucky gently said, “Technically it isn’t his. It’s Stark’s,”

Sharon shrugged. “Does aunt Peggy count as the owner?”

“Steve tells me she’s the first to dent it,” Bucky grabbed his glass from below and took a small sip, licking his lips as he sighed. “So, also technically, she has rights to it,”

“I have no understanding of this,” Sam cut off, quite stiff pressed against the chair. 

Sharon chuckled for a short while before sighing contently, Bucky following in suit and before he even knew it, Sam was resting his chin against Bucky’s shoulder. Content as ever, not one of the two of Bucky and Sam wanted to move; the atoms that dared want each other’s finally had settled at a steady pace, almost catastrophic was it to be completely still like this, in each other’s warming presence and image. Who knew they would have wanted this?

It was like another Tuesday, except that it was a Thursday this time: the trees wept and the sky stilled, almost in synchronization with the breeze that almost disappeared, only to come by in a sweeping motion until the air seemed breathless and barren. The house in the woods was a haven—Yes it was. The state of being blissfully in peace was just at arm’s reach when you begin to live here in this seclusion, and it starves you nicely and kindly, telling you that it’s okay if you want to take this peace bit by bit or come towards the buffet table for a third plate.

So they laid there in peace, blissfully breathing and thinking: _I’m alive_.

They don’t think about it most days, and it’s easy to forget when you want to forget it.

The next night after that was like most Friday nights when the moon was at its peak and the night was barely on its last flame, dinner comes by pretty late whenever the Stark family—Pepper Stark, Morgan Stark, Happy Hogan—comes over with an addition of the Rambeaus—Maria Rambeau, Monica Rambeau, and Carol Danvers—from next door down on the road. Sam, Bucky, and Sharon had cooked their signature dishes like steak, whole roast chicken, baked salmon, blueberry marble cake, and some very bland seafood salad Bucky had made the last minute when he found out the Stark’s were finally coming over after a whole month of inviting them to the woods ( He thought it was only nice to prepare something himself instead of the table ).

As the food was passed around, they laughed in wonder as Sam kept telling funny stories about his practices with the shield, like the time he tried to pick up his shield and accidentally slipping ( almost one or five times he had slipped by the stairs at the middle of the night ) or that time he had swung the shield and miscalculated his force that it went up and got stuck onto the roof ( even breaking that one attic window ), and no sooner had Pepper revealed that she too was practicing piloting her iron suit and telling funny stories, like when she had first flown higher than the stratosphere and almost bailed if it were not for the A.I. in her suit guiding her ( and maybe she had also had called accidentally called Happy, as he tells ). There was a point where Monica, now in her early forties, was quite secretive with her job, in which Sharon, who had stayed the night before, had sent a wink towards her; They both laughed as Maria had almost sputtered at her daughter’s antics and closeness with Sharon. There was a point where the six-year-old Morgan had piped up and said she was taking ballet.

Bucky wanted to dash out of the room right then and there.

Bucky sat still instead, straining a smile as the table gushed and asked questions to entertain the child, and there was a point when Sam had mentioned that their friend Natasha had “practiced ballet when she was young” and something twisted in Bucky’s stomach when the man said them as if it made Bucky want to speak up and correct the fact. Did she take ballet? How did Bucky know this? He was nauseous the entire time, forcing a smile and laugh whenever someone said something funny, and he talked when they expected him to. His appetite was lost at that moment, and he didn’t care if his stomach and metabolism would eat itself if he just ate a few pieces of chicken; it twisted like a knife inside him, and Sam didn’t seem to notice from across the table.

Bucky turned his foot under the table towards Sam, and Sam only twisted his ankle to kick Bucky’s foot towards him; that was the end of that, but Sam sent him a comforting smile Bucky’s way the moment Bucky had discomfort written on his face.

When Morgan was asking Monica what she did when she was her age, something flashed behind Bucky’s eyes: he sees little children and winter—and one redhead. It breaks something inside of him when this memory jabbed him, almost sending him to stand up abruptly; it has always been like this—when broken memories came and went where he has to write them down quickly as to not to forget them. This one, however, Bucky feels should die in hell.

Later when it was past midnight, with the rest of their guests including Sharon had left for the Rambeau’s for sleep and more wine, in the shared bedroom of theirs, Bucky was exerting himself into some exercises, doing some push-ups with several encyclopedias set on the small of his back and shoulders with his one flesh arm supporting him. He didn’t count them—He never counts them. His mind was scattered with thoughts and scenarios as he stared straight downwards towards the floorboards in the hazy room. He didn’t bother with turning on the lights or drawing the curtains open, he just went inside shut the door, and dropped to his knees, shaking, before executing his nightly routine.

Alpine meows from Sam’s bed and hopped to the ground to curl around Bucky’s legs. Alpine purrs as he lies down on Bucky’s feet.

Bucky feels this and slows down. “Al,” he chokes, his breath shaking. “Get off. I’m working,”

Alpine perks up only to drape himself higher on Bucky’s thighs that were set a bit apart. Bucky stopped when his cat did this, drooping his head as he set his other had on the ground to support his weight. He shook his head until he was sniffling, shaking his head, saying, “You stupid stray, I said get off,” in the gentlest voice he could make as he was breaking down. 

Alpine purred.

Bucky gasps as he let a tear slip, whispering, “I care a lot about strays, don’t I?” He nodded, looking up. “The… Wi… Wi… Widow… was it?”

The room was silent, and Bucky perked up when he heard the quietness instilled in him startle him.

Bucky hummed as he clicked his tongue. “I remember them now. It’s worse than the files said,”

There was silence for a moment as Bucky relented in his memories, the same memories he knew he would never get back due to the deep HYDRA brainwashing that only came back after all these years. It seemed ridiculously late, and Bucky had to sob at the fact that maybe it should’ve stayed buried in him. Despite the dread, the ache that comes with it was barren with connection; who were they? Are they still alive like him? He didn’t want to know, but at the same time, he wanted to mourn for the women subjected to the cruel program.

There was a knock on the door.

Bucky and Alpine perked up from their spot from the floor.

There was a turn of the doorknob, but the door didn’t open, as Sam spoke from behind the door: “Help me practice,”

“It’s late,” Bucky replied, his cheeks wet with tears.

Sam parted the door, but he didn’t appear. The light from the hallway settled on Bucky’s face; Barens was afraid that Sam would see him like this, but at the same time, he felt comfortable if it was Sam who had discovered him so vulnerable like this. Then there was that same pull Bucky felt when they were lounging in the backyard so close to each other as if the pull had become so natural that it had become instinct.

Sam spoke after a long pause: “I don’t care. Let’s go,”

We cut towards Bucky who had a jacket pulled around him as he stood by the porch steps. He watched Sam throw the shield that anchored in the trunk of a faraway tree, and it was a nice distraction for Bucky, just watching his Captain exercise as well as the way his bare arms glistened with sweat under the fairy lights that were half-put up across the edge of the slope that was too near towards them. Sam heaved for a moment with his arms on his waist, turning around expectantly towards Bucky. Sam stretched his arms, and Bucky applauded for a moment to entertain the man.

Bucky stepped down the steps as he spoke, “What are you aiming at?”

“The tree.”

Bucky grabbed the shield from the tree for Sam. As soon as Bucky had stepped aside and gave the shield to Sam, the man had thrown his elbow back as he threw the shield once more; it arched as it fell against gravity, once more anchoring itself in the same tree trunk from before. Bucky hummed in interest as he rocked on his heels. This whole sequence repeated itself, but as soon as Sam was on his fifth throw, Bucky sensed Sam was doing this not only to train himself but for something else he shouldn’t motivate himself with.

Bucky set a firm grasp on the man’s shoulder, whispering, “Don’t exert yourself for this,”

“You were exerting yourself just a while ago,” Sam gently spoke, but his body was aggressive and forceful as he readied himself to throw the shield. “It’s possible for me to do that too. Don’t think otherwise,”

“We shouldn’t even be hurting ourselves,” Bucky hissed as he stepped in front of Sam, his hand now behind the man’s neck. “We need to stop,”

Sam shook his head. “I agree with you,”

“Then put down the shield.”

Sam flinched, his eyes showing fear for a split second before gritting his teeth. “You don’t tell me if I should surrender it or not,”

“I’m not telling you to,” Bucky cried, his voice cracking at the end. He paused for a moment before his breath became shaky as he continued, “I’m not ever forcing you to… just… pay attention to me, Sam. Stop for a while,”

“No.”

“Are you trying to prove a point?”

Sam side-stepped, kicking Bucky by the heels, making the man slip and fall on his bottom. Bucky looked up in anticipation only to see Sam pacing and murmuring to himself in panic.

Sam stopped and brought his arm towards Bucky only to bring it close to his own body. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, shaking his head. “I don’t know what’s happening. I’m… I’m so sorry,”

“You’re trying to prove something—” Bucky said as he rested on his side, his left arm supporting him. “—that you already had proved to everyone so long ago,”

“Do you even know?” Sam stopped pacing, the shield lazily strapped onto his arm.

“No,” Bucky grunted as he stood. “No, I don’t know,”

“Okay.”

Bucky brushed off the dirt on his clothes and then brought Sam closer to him, taking the shield away from him, flipping it over in amazement before taking it on his own. Bucky had planted his foot firmly and threw the shield at a force that it swung upwards and crashed against the tree, the same visible crack that Sam had made prior. Bucky jogged towards the tree and came back with the shield as quick as he could; he gave it back to Sam, and the man didn’t seem at all fazed with the way Bucky had thrown the shield.

“I’ve helped Steve with the physics of it,” Bucky said as he pointed at the shield that Sam held in his hands. “I mean, yeah it had physics to it,”

“I know,” Sam nodded, eyes settled on Bucky’s. “He told me,”

It’s late, the moon was right above them, and as the crickets sang a symphony, Bucky had pressed his body next to Sam’s as he told the man to plant his non-dominant foot and throw the shield as if he was pitching a baseball ball as far as he could. Sam smiled fondly at the way Bucky whispered his instructions to his ear, so gently had he fixed Sam’s posture that it was quite difficult to see that this man could ever hurt anyone.

The next we saw the two was early morning, and Sam had thrown his shield all his might while using Bucky’s tricks and tips from the night before. Use your whole body if you have to, and Sam did. The arc was smoother and it dented the tree deeply, almost eating the shield whole. Sam walks over to the tree and takes his shield, but as soon as he takes it from the bark and turned around, Sharon had stalked over and met him by the tree with arms crossed and lips contorted into a frown.

“Zemo is out of his cell,” Sharon whispers, her eyes glancing towards Bucky who was lounging on the lounge chair by the porch.

“When?”

“We don’t know who took him,” Sharon set her eyes diligently on Sam’s. “It was a week ago, last Monday,”

Sam hissed, “Seven days and no one knew?”

Sharon shrugged. “Was I supposed to know?” her voice was laced with worry. She paused for a moment before nodding. “Bucky was right though. I’m out of the CIA. Retired a month ago before they could connect anything S.H.I.E.L.D. and Avenger related towards me,”

“Bucky didn’t tell me anything about it.”

She shook her head. “No. We just talked a while ago. I’m sorry if I used this place to escape. I just didn’t know where else to go,”

“It’s not your fault. You were always welcomed here.”

They stood silent for a moment, quietly glancing at Bucky for a few times as they tried to gather what they wanted to say.

“You make a good Captain America, though,” Sharon nodded, her gaze far away towards the horizon before facing him. She nodded before he had the chance to say something, already leaving him alone and inside the house, and a few minutes later, he heard the sound of a car’s horn.

She left. Sam wasn’t able to say thank you.

That night was quieter than most nights, and it was probably because, after all of the emotions they had experienced together several days and nights in a row, they could have just hidden behind their guests and their obliviousness and be in comfort. Now, the air seemed thick of tension; it’s the kind that choked, the kind that urges you to move. Those two were exhausted and famished, only ever wanting to eat in peace, but the tension settled in the air that seemed familiar of smoke, a sickly sweet scent that wafted around the dining area as they ate their heated up leftovers from the night before. 

They were healing, weren’t they? The world just won’t let them have their peace, huh?

They ate in tense silence where Alpine would occasionally set a hand on Bucky’s so he could take some food off of his owner’s plate. That became the routine for the night. Eat. Meow. Hum. It was bland. Exhaustive. Awkward.

Sam chewed absentmindedly on his chicken, shaking his head as he hummed. Bucky nodded every time he chewed on the pasta, closing his eyes and sometimes complementing Sam for his cooking. Sam would also sometimes ask what movie they would watch next week, but the answer was always the same with Bucky: either Star Wars or the Matrix, and either way, Sam just enjoyed his company ( and Bucky’s absurd movie opinions, but that’s for another time ).

Bucky swallowed, murmured, “I miss her too,”

Sam perked up, raising an eyebrow. “Sharon’s gonna come back on Tuesday. Like always,”

Bucky shook her head. “Not her. The other one. I knew her,”

Sam’s eyebrows raised in surprise, almost choking on thin air when he realized Bucky remembered. Bucky quickly grabbed Sam’s hand and twisted them so their fingers intertwined; Bucky sent Sam a guilty look, but what was he supposed to be guilty for? Was Bucky supposed to be guilty of knowing Natasha from a cruel time? Sam didn’t think so, but he only squeezed Bucky’s hand in return. It felt nice, to sit like this and be in each other’s presence. The air was still thick in tension, but they didn’t feel like it needed to change; it sent stakes onto the table, and they felt like they needed more of that around here.

The slope that their windows overlooked was definitely crawling with monsters and ghouls that beckoned lost souls toward the darkness, but Bucky and Sam were here inside their old house ( maybe Sam could get Sarah to let him live here ) and were unbothered by the night and its silence because, for one, they weren’t lost. As they sat on their table and ate in peace, they only felt each other’s warm hand in addition to another new blanket of odd in the air, and the way they existed and acknowledge that existence sang a different kind of symphony that catered to their reckless behavior. This was the thing they’ve wanted, what they’ve searched for and given up; it was right here, and they were so glad they made it here in the woods to just exist with each other. To hell their burdens and problems—they’ll get through it.

For a moment, Bucky smiled quite giddily as heat raced to his cheeks. Sam glanced at him, and couldn’t help but let a grin slip onto his lips at the sight of it. 

“I-I don’t know what to do! I-I-I mean, they were everywhere! Manhattan was a mess—”

This was the next day, early morning right after the break of dawn. Bucky had picked up their landline phone and was immediately bombarded with Pepper in hysterics, all about some aerial team that looked reminiscent of the classified Falcon suits—only more tacky in detail— and, of course, she had every right to be mad. 

Bucky had come to the backyard just in time to see Sam exerting himself safely this time; all the more swiftly and smoothly, the way Sam had twisted and threw the shield that once again was stuck in the bark of the tree. Bucky grinned as he went down the steps. Sam was breathless, but he wasn’t under difficulty in it—if anything, he was breathless with the way Bucky never failed to retrieve his shield for Sam. Bucky came over to him and couldn’t help bite down a grin; they clasped each other’s hands in greeting and pulled the other in a tight hug, and they didn’t see it, but the other smiled at the warmth of each of their bodies, not wanting to leave them ever again.

Bucky frowned, pulling Sam just a bit to say, “It’s time,”

Whether they were ready or not, they had to go back towards the world. They were new men now, though; they know better now, and they knew what troubles that would waver them and break them once more, but they’ll always have this house in the woods, as a treat, as a reminder that they had known peace and learned how to be passionate and feel.

After all, they’re the Falcon and the Winter Soldier. What can’t they do?


	2. The Man on the Dock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world has called upon them, but Sam and Bucky, reluctant in their silence, go on anyways, only for the latter to stumble upon some old foe of his friends waiting at the docks, unable to leave, but why?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried my best in editing, okay? 
> 
> Warning: this lone chapter is a staggering 19, 367 words!! also, angst and fluff!!

The first thing we see is Alpine Barnes the Cat going through a small hole in the wall that led to the inside of the said wall. She playfully toys with a baseball ball as her blue eyes pop with interest; the ball rolled downwards the inside of the wall, dodging beams and whatnot, and so Alpine could do nothing but comply with her instincts. She went down a few steps before catching up to the ball, and we now see that there was a secret room, a huge space for a safe room or a panic room of sorts, all dusty and full of sawdust as crates piled up one another by the walls. Alpine continued to play, nonetheless, completely oblivious to the danger that lurked in the atmosphere.

Alpine then pushes the ball away, then going up a pile of crates as if they were stairs, draping herself on the third crate as she stretched, almost at peace with the dusty and dim room. Our view of the scene expands in on itself, and we now see with horror that the walls were lined with guns and ammunition of all kinds: rifles, handguns, and grenade launchers of all kinds hanging onto the wall; a few crates were opened to reveal more of these weapons, all bombs, and bullets. It's here the cat feels safe, so who are we to judge? Are we going to trust a cat in a room's safety?

Alpine suddenly perked her head, an ear twitched as she tried to catch a sound. We see nothing. We hear nothing. Alpine does not falter, and we begin to fear what's to come. Who's out there? What's this room? Alpine looks out into another hole in the wall, her head still raised diligently. The hole was almost as big as a door, enough for a grown human to go in through; it was as if it was chopped into with an ax, quite hastily, as if to quickly grab something from inside as a last resort.

Alpine hisses at the hole, the light streaming in the room, rays of sunlight practically dancing with the dust. We see nothing. We hear nothing. What does this cat know that we don't?

The same door of a wall cuts into our view, and it's where Sharon Carter suddenly pops into, startling Alpine, making her jump down and into the ground. Alpine hissed at her sullen face. Sharon stepped inside, her parka tugging at the splinters but it didn’t cause much trouble. She kneeled before Alpine, the cat inspecting her as if trying to recognize her.

"Please," she whispered, and it was almost as if she was begging, her eyes closed tight as the corner of her lips twitched downwards. "I don't know how cats work, so just stop hiding,"

Alpine looked up at her with pure blissful eyes, purring into her warmth. Sharon sighed in relief, scooping up the cat in her arms as she stood up and went back outside and into a hallway in the Barnes and Wilson house. She tuts at Alpine, but she was idle in her arms.

It's here that we see that the hole in the wall was at the end of a hallway where it led into two more hallways: to her right a bathroom, and to her left a door at the end of the hallway which led outside facing the lake. She went down the main hallway, reaching where the steps of the stairs ended and the kitchen, stepping down from the platform and into the living area where it was bustling with people.

It was here in the living area where the room seemed barren nonetheless crowded, with random people we’ve never met before entering the house and exiting with either boxes or furniture, one by one taking the Barnes and Wilson house apart. It was in the middle of the living area that, somehow despite our confusion, Nicky Fury — barking orders and whatnot as he stands with a boss-like demeanor — and Carol Danvers — repeating simple words Fury says with Goose the Cat in her arms — stands, all in uniform attire for Fury and casual home clothes for Carol. It looked like Moving Day; everyone was all over the place. It didn’t seem things were organized, but it went smoothly somehow. People had perplexed expressions, and even Fury had it — Carol just seemed pleased when Sharon came in with the cat.

Sharon fixes Alpine in her arms, smirking as she moved her head to push back a strand of loose hair from her bun. “You two do know we could get a lot more done if everyone actually helped?” she raised an eyebrow as Carol shrugged, “Or, maybe, stop bossing us around?”

Fury grins, shifting his weight to his other leg. “Oh, this is much more fun, Agent,” and then, unusually— yet Sharon and Carol seemed used to it — Fury was revealed to be Talos, as he transformed and shed his previous identity to his uniform one, “Besides,” he looks around the room, nodding towards the window. “I’m who Nick left in charge,”

Carol raised her chin quite cheekily as she copied Sharon’s movements. “I’m with him,” she raises Goose from her arms, “Anyway, How’s wrangling some aliens, Agent?” she side-eyes Alpine, who Sharon protectively brings closer to her chest, “Seems the tiger’s all tamed now,”

“Oh, ha, ha, Danvers,” Sharon mocks, setting Alpine on the lone loveseat in the room; just then, the couch was carried by two more random people and took it away. The three, distraught and annoyed at the white feline, watched Alpine jump off the love seat, perk her head at the sudden opening of the door, and ran out of the room and towards outside just as soon as Bucky Barnes enters the room.

Our point of view changed to Bucky’s, who clasped his hand with Sam Wilson when they passed by each other. Sam carried a box towards the dining area, but that didn’t stop the two of them from bumping each other by the hips, bringing their intertwined hands close to their faces you’d mistake them for kissing the back of each other’s hand. Bucky only let go of Sam’s hand when Sam had already walked way past him and was way out of reach, leaving Bucky to stand alone in the division of the kitchen area and dining area, with him being directly in the path leading to the backyard.

It’s here that Bucky turns back around and stared at the screen door, a cold chill running down his neck as his eyes squint at the way the light enters the room. He took a few hesitant steps towards the door but stopped when he felt the air fall in temperature. Was it right to do this? Moving away from a place he had learned to call home? Seeing what the world has become, as it melted at the core and had failed to repent its sins, it was nerve-wracking, belittling Bucky; he didn’t want to leave. He wanted to stay here, in the cute little house the Wilson family owned in the middle of the woods; to be unbothered by the world was an “almost” to Bucky, and to have it right at his fingertips? Magic. Ineffable. He wanted it so badly it seemed different right next to oxygen.

Bucky remembered his cat, and jerks his head behind him, raising his voice to say: “Don’t worry! Al knows the woods like the back of her paw,” and as he said it, his voice broke at the end into a whisper. He opened the door and left the house, jogging down the steps as he stepped onto the grass, pulling his jacket around his torso as a cool breeze swept by. The backyard looked plain when the lights were down.

Bucky glanced towards the dock as he zips up his jacket and shoved his hands into the pockets. He looked around for anyone watching, and he thought it was ridiculous to do so; yet, he did it anyway; why? He didn’t know. He didn’t _want_ to know. He moved towards the dock at the far edge of the property, almost taking whole minutes to get there. Heaving, his mind was empty as he took great strides to get here; where did his feet take him? He felt right when it did, but it also felt odd when he heard the creaking sounds of the decaying wood against his weight.

It's here that his mind went fritz, almost hearing his thoughts drown into static, mimicking some broken old radio which failed to catch a station. Biting his lip, he looked out in the distance in thought. Perhaps he was thinking of what he'd do after leaving the place; it seemed like the most probable one. The way his hands were in a cold sweat at the very thought of entering a new environment told us that he wasn't ready. He wasn't, but he feels like he could be. He felt that need or assurance, one that he felt was somewhere he couldn't point out — a place where he couldn't remember or didn't want to remember; he craved it now, for so long, when he had lived a life with nothing but his lonesome.

There were more troubles within a state of lonesome, for who are you with to fight against the darkness when no one is ever there? Here, at this vast property, is where Bucky finally felt that alien feeling, the same feeling he didn’t think was possible for him. Almost at peace. Almost right there. Almost next to good. It's almost too good — It's almost right there. It's the tangibility, he thinks, that would save him; the only thing possible for him, that would let him have his peace, was whatever was in here, in these woods, in the property, and, _God_ , it wasn't even entirely his. He wanted it to be his, to call possession to it, and to have no one take it away from him?

When angels cry, Bucky guesses.

If it not for Sam, Bucky would have glued himself to the porch and battled anyone who tried to take him away from the house. He could feel his heart drown within itself, swallowing all of the emotions that revibrated in his rib cage, just aching to be released, and, _why?_ Why was it so hard to do just that? Bucky feels like breaking down into sobs just at the thought of leaving, but what would Sam think? The moment they both decided to leave, Sam’s face had broken into one of relief, one that breaks anything so pure, making you believe you had never seen anything so soft in your life. That’s the ache, perhaps; the ache that Bucky felt in his chest all led to Moving Day.

Bucky would fight Sam to stay, but he pained at the idea of fighting Sam.

With a sigh, Bucky turned his foot and began to walk, only to jump in a yelp when Sam suddenly appeared behind him out of nowhere. Sam swallowed the lump in his throat as he stood quite stiffly, watching Bucky’s eyes shoot from left to right as if to decipher how the fuck Sam was able to sneak up to him so easily. With wide eyes, they examined each other, almost unsure on what to do. Their hands tried finding the right place to go, but nothing felt right at the moment.

"Huh," Bucky, hesitant and confused, breathed out, looking behind him before turning to Sam once more, "Hi-Hi…"

Sam nodded, his lips thinned down into an awkward show of neutrality. “Yeah, uh, hi,” he cleared his throat, his eyebrows furrowed.

“You’re getting pretty good at that.”

“At… what.”

“ _Sneaking_.”

“Ah. I mean, I don’t try to sneak around…”

Bucky then shook his head, almost hesitantly, but more so proud at the man. “Like, _wow_ , I’d mistake you for a spy, sneaking up on me out of all, um, spies...” he gasped, dropping his arms at the side.

Sam nodded, his eyebrows still knitted together, yet he couldn’t help but let a stiff smile creep onto his lips. He glanced over Bucky's shoulder and nodded towards the horizon as his eyes settled back to the man. "Our boat is over there," and Bucky looked behind him to eye the other side of the lake where the treeline and water seemed to blur, "I was wondering if you want to come with,"

Bucky grinned, rocking on his heels as he hid the smile. "Okay," he glances over the dinghy that rocked lightly by their own dock, "But, you sail,"

Sam pouted, but it turned into a playful smirk before making strides towards it, spinning to face Bucky as he playfully raised his hands in surrender. "Only if you also let me sail the yacht back here,"

Bucky laughed as Sam sticks a foot into the dinghy. Bucky outstretched an arm in which Sam grabbed onto; Sam held that same arm when Bucky went inside the boat. It rocked for a moment, and Bucky seemed afraid of it at first while Sam only laughed.

Seeing Sam laugh, it did things for Bucky; it feels like cloud nine. What’s the world going to do? Sam’s laughing; Bucky’s smiling. The world couldn’t touch this.

"Your boat," Bucky sighed as he leaned onto the opposite seat of Sam who took the ores into his own hands.

Sam shook his head and began to row them towards their destination. “My boat, huh,” he murmurs, his eyes lingering onto Bucky’s figure as the man leaned his head back to soak up the morning sun.

It’s here that you can actually smell the water, and Bucky has been babbling for the past twenty minutes about how water actually has a scent, to Sam’s amusement. It’s a natural trait of Bucky’s to amuse Sam like this; making Sam smile and nod in faux interest at anything science-related, it makes Bucky gasp in awe, makes him wonder how anyone could ever tolerate him. Knowing Sam was one of the few people who could be so relaxed around someone like Bucky made the latter so _jealous_ , because how dare Sam be so good — so friendly, so _amazing_ , so… so… so like what he should _always_ be.

Bucky sighed, biting down his lip as a lazy smile formed on them. His arms were either side of the boat as he raised his head from his slouching position, saying: "You were always gonna make a great Cap," and his voice, _oh_ , he made it as if it was the Gospel, but maybe it was; Bucky made anything that connected with Sam almost like something that conjured out of the Bible.

Sam chuckled, shaking his head as he turned away. He looked back at Bucky's expectant look; it didn't seem that Sam believed so when the man's eyes spoke otherwise. "Don’t—" Sam bit down his tongue after swiping his lips wet, “—Don’t say that. I don’t,” he laughed a bit, looking away as his eyebrows furrowed and his lips quirked upwards into a smile. He shook his head, eyes shutting tight in concentration as he continued, “I don’t even have a _suit…_ yet,”

The air seemed thin halfway through the lake. Sam had stopped rowing, and if he realized this he wouldn’t know; he seemed far away now, and Bucky was afraid that he had accidentally sent Sam into an abyss none of the two could bring him back from. The air was knocked right out of Bucky’s chest when he realized Sam didn’t seem to believe what the world has given him was actually _tangible_ ; it was as if Sam knew it was real, but could it actually be? Was it his? Was it theirs? Who was rightfully the owner? Sam practically believed that he _could_ to the point that maybe he _shouldn’t_. It didn’t seem right to hurt like this. Sam knew, and at the same time, he didn’t. Sam believed, and at the same time, he didn’t. Sam breathed, and at the same time, he didn’t. It didn’t feel like he was alive like he could’ve been, but was he?

Bucky’s eyes started to water, his mouth agape. He swallowed the saliva that gathered in his mouth but his entirety felt dry as if drained of the life that used to be inside of him. Bucky seemed to be distressed, his body sweating and his knees weak at the very thought of Sam unable to understand that— “You and I both know it’s not the suit that makes Captain America,” Bucky hastily speaks as he suppressed a gasp for air, his voice almost breaking at the end.

Sam seemed shaken when he was brought back to the surface; his eyes widened as his head perked up. He shook his head, eyes now stern as his posture read authoritative. “Just—” he pressed down his lips, eyes closing as he blinked rapidly, “Don’t,” his eyes settled hard on Bucky, and there was that break inside of him that could shatter glass at the mere sight of it, “You’re making me lose reasons,”

“Reasons for what?”

Sam let go of the ores as he brings them inside the boat, almost stumbling on himself as he does so. “I don’t know. It’s…” he hissed as his voice boomed. Hearing himself yell seemed out of character—just, odd and different, “...difficult, because I know I _am_ gonna make a great Captain America because the man…” his eyes turned confused as they settled onto the water, “the man himself said _I was_ , and,” he gasped shakily, bringing his hands on either side of his head as his elbows settled on his knees, “yeah, I _know_ the suit has nothing to do with it… but, shit’s difficult, alright? Makes it a burden when everyone…” he trails off, but he looks at Bucky quite expectantly.

Bucky had felt the pressure build up inside of him because _yes, yes, Sam, I know! Yes! I fucking know!_ Bucky wanted to scream towards the heavens, _Shit’s a burden, and you don’t have to fucking live like this! That’s not what’s all of this was supposed to be, and I just want to take that burden away from you and your perfection, because you don’t deserve shit like this!_

Bucky nodded, absentmindedly sighing. “...puts you on a pedestal,” he finishes for Sam; the other man smiled, and everything seemed okay. Bucky nodded once more, hesitantly saying: “Okay,” he shakes his head, almost as if he was dreading his next words—and maybe he did, “I’ll back off, but don’t think I'm not watching you,” he pointed an accusing finger at Sam who mockingly set a hand on his chest, “I’m still mad at whatcha done,”

Sam had his hands on his cheeks, looking at Bucky with wide innocent eyes as he said, “Done what?” and he seemed sincerely confused about the context of the accusation.

“You know…” Bucky sits up straighter now, doing some weird hand motions that only confused Sam even more; it made Sam laugh, so Bucky thinks it was fine, “pushing yourself—” he then quickly added, scratching his head, “—to your limit,” he cleared his throat, struggling to meet Sam’s waiting eyes, “I don’t want to see you hurt yourself, Sammy…”

Sam sat up straighter, humming as he let the words sink into him. _I don’t want to see you hurt yourself_ , and the way Bucky said it, as if he was carefully choosing his words, speaking them with such a gentle caress to his tone, it disquieted Sam, almost making the man crave that same awkward atmosphere once more like heroin. It was the addiction that came with it. Hearing things like this that just pushes oneself so bare and exposed to the other, it should be abandoned, left for dead, made illegal, because why should they let this get into their heads? They’ve had enough to think about late at night. Why should he overthink?

Sam snorted. “Funny,"

Bucky groaned, whispering into his arm: “It’s not, Sam,” but he wasn’t noticed.

“—I haven’t realized that,” Sam chuckled, but it died down.

There goes the same chill that ran down their spine when they realize what’s going to happen. It’s addicting, and if it weren’t for their dignity, they would’ve buried themselves in rosy compliments and lilac sunsets, just begging for the intimacy and freedom that one could provide to the other, but why the fuck does it make sense to ask each other instead of anyone else? What does he have that the world hasn’t?

The silence was echoing, breaking winds and the foul stench in the air. They could almost hear it, though — The sound of water seemed deafening even though nothing made it in the first place, and if they both had made it up in their heads like some Folie à deux, they wouldn’t bother as to how it happened; it breaks the wind, a thundering cry of a ring that just expands the quietness that dared coddle the two. You wish you could scream but you were too afraid that the tranquility would break under a single touch, and you’d go mad if one single feather even had landed onto it, so you don’t scream, you don’t whisper, and you don’t even speak — you just hope actions speak louder than words and even then it _hurts_ to even move.

Bucky leaned forward, his hands intertwined together as his elbows settled on his knees. He tries to gather what he wants to say, and Sam awaits with wide eyes and dreadful anticipation. “I’m not waiting for you to realize that yourself,” he whispered, sighing sadly as his eyes met Sam’s. Sam’s eyes in the sunlight look a lot more like an actual brown, an ocher kind that glints like a diamond in a forest; it calmed Bucky, nonetheless, “I know what it looks like. I know what and _how_ it leads to it. So just listen to me when I say this,” his eyes hardened, but he tried his best to speak as gently as possible, his voice almost leaving nothing but a murmur.

Sam nodded, his eyes breaking the gaze.

Bucky’s eyebrows raised in realization; his mouth was agape as his eyes traced the figure of Sam’s jaw. His breath faltered as his hands tremble against each other; he glanced at them before he has forced himself to look at Sam in the eye whether any of them wanted to or not. “I…” he whispers, eyebrows furrowing, “...care…” he seemed breathless — unable. As if his senses left him, Bucky could do nothing but let the silence wash over them; he still struggled to speak, forcing himself to voice what his thoughts wanted him to say.

“No, no,” Sam hastily cut off, a hand suddenly setting on top of Bucky’s hand. All the man could do was stare at Sam’s fingers that looped themselves into his own, “You don’t—” Sam shook his head, “—have to… say it,”

It’s become a pattern: talk, then get emotional, and then feel that change in the air. It has become so common now it feels strange not to have it. It’s the kind of awkward change that makes you crave it even more, so you go ahead and do things that would lead to them anyway, even if you know it’s going to _be_ awkward. Nevermind that it’s awkward and that Sam and Bucky don’t know how to act afterward; they trust the other enough not to judge themselves, and maybe that’s the part of the equation that could tell them why they’ve let this change come and go so fast these days that they’ve become jetlagged at the mere sight of it.

Maybe it’s because of the sense of odd that came with it. They’ve been subjected to a world where odd was the norm for too long that when life has become so stagnant after the Blip, they feared that normality would come to eat them once more; it would pierce its fangs to their skin as blood curdles out of their lips, red from suppressing screams and ooze that they didn’t want the world to hear and see. It didn’t make sense; how could they ever go back to the life that had dulled them down so long before? It’s madness, the way anyone could ever feel at home after all the fuckery that has been written into history books. _Hug him and kiss her_ , what if no one wants that? You expect people to go back to their roles yet you haven’t noticed the askew state of society; no one would ever feel normal after being written off history only to be forcefully pasted back into those same records.

Will the universe ever let them rest?

Sam’s eyes were still wide as he searched Bucky’s dull ones; Bucky couldn’t help but feel tense under the man’s gaze as if being vulnerable wasn’t enough, the man had the gall to graze his eyes onto Bucky’s frame so gently and so carefully that Bucky couldn’t help but squirm in his seat. Sam, however, sees someone who has been strong for too long finally feels himself be comfortable around Sam, and his heart aches for Bucky because this man has decided that Sam was worth it to become a valuable part of his life. It’s integral to who they were, and the other decided that _Yes. I wanted this._

Bucky cleared his throat; swallowing the lump in his throat, he whispered: “Are you scared?”

A frown formed on Sam’s lips as he shook his head. He watched their hands slowly and gently intertwine into each other, almost painstakingly letting their souls ache at the action like some masochist. It was as if they were afraid the other would turn away, but they craved the stakes so badly now that they’d even starve themselves off of it.

“Nervous, for some reason,” Sam spoke, his voice soft and gentle, “Scared? Maybe,” they share a small smile, “I’ve been too scared for a long time, it’s become the standard, and when it became standard,” he shrugged as he met eyes with Bucky, “it became so little a problem now,”

"I know that all too well. It…" his eyebrows furrowed as he speaks in a grave tone, " fucks with you," he tried to meet Sam's eyes, but he couldn't bear to do it, "Is it the same?"

"What is?"

"Modern Military. You still sleep on the ground?"

Sam groaned as he shook his head, and one could call it dramatic; Bucky laughed with Sam. "Where else would I sleep?" he chuckled along Bucky, pressing their fingers together quite gently, you wouldn't feel it even if it did, "I’m with the Falcon Program, it’s top-secret," and for emphasis, he pressed a finger to his lips to show that it was a hush-hush topic.

Bucky hummed, licking his lips. "Is that where you learned to sneak around?"

"No. The kitchen, age twelve," they laugh together, and the air feels lighter than before as if the air was sucked right out of their system. Bucky smiled at Sam's glow, and their hands were stiff upon one another. It was almost embarrassing to notice it; they hoped the other wouldn't feel how stressed and anxious they were. It might ruin the intimacy, "Um, no, uh. I mean, I get what you’re…" Sam's eyebrows furrowed as a frown takes place on his lips, “… trying to ask… The secrecy probably did make me…"

Bucky's eyes softened as he looked away; he bit his lip, nibbling on it as he tried to remember something faraway. "I’m sorry,” he glanced at Sam who was looking away, “You know, for me… it’s my sister’s bedroom window, age fifteen,” Sam finally looked back at Bucky, and he had to smile at Sam’s instant interest, “I used to sneak out a lot just to hear the music that played two streets down where the fancy bars were," a frown matches Sam's, and the air feels hardened and thick around here, "When I was old enough, I still sneaked out,"

Sam's eyes traveled on Bucky's posture. "It’s a girl, huh,"

Bucky shrugged, tried to casually say: "Well, you can say Tasha is a persistent bitch, praise her," but he sounded odd as if he was far away; off to where? Bucky doesn't even seem to know.

"Tasha?" Sam carefully asked.

Bucky nodded, but he shook his head frantically as he looked away; his breathing faltered as his eyes glazed, breathing in deeply as he urged out: "Sorry," his voice breaks at the end as he says it, and that's what made Bucky break down; he brought one hand to cover his eyes as his posture broke, "I don’t know wh-what to call her. I’m so sorry. It’s what I remembered,"

Sam swallows a thick roll of saliva down his throat, almost choking on it as his breathing faltered, barely letting him have a suck of air between his teeth. The air seemed thinner here; it was probably just the wind.

Seeing Bucky vulnerable like this, it churns something heavy and deep within him, as if Sam had wanted this all along; it aches to see his Bucky like this — broken and far away, and even though Sam knows Bucky had been like this for so long late at night, seeing it for himself like this… it doesn’t seem right, but it still does. Knowing Bucky allows himself to be vulnerable in front of him, Sam couldn’t help but feel a new weight set upon his shoulders unlike the rest of the burdens he had — this one was astonishingly light and brighter, like a glowing lamp that guides sailors in foggy seas. Sam liked that; he liked it was different, and that it didn’t seem like a chore, because in actuality, Bucky _wasn’t_ a chore.

Sam held Bucky's lone hand tighter, whispering: "Is it bad I know all of this?"

Bucky looked up with his eyes tinted red with tears that begged to be released. He grew sickly pale, his hands trembling in Sam’s hold, and if it were not for Sam, Bucky would’ve let go of the touch, to refuse intimacy and compassion. It’s alright, Bucky thinks; Sam would understand—

Wait— Would he? Really? Bucky still didn’t think Sam would. Bucky thinks that Sam would feel hurt, almost disgusted at the cowardly act that Bucky even dared think of the least. Bucky thought Sam would never forgive him if he let go because it would mean a lot of things: it would mean Bucky didn’t want Sam’s company, Sam’s comfort, Sam’s forgiveness, Sam’s compassion, Sam’s, Sam’s, _Sam_ . Bucky wanted Sam so _badly_ he’d even drink up the blood that Sam bleeds and kiss the dirt that leaves his shoes.

Their hands were rigged and sweating against each other. The first to let go was Sam, wiping his hands on his sweatpants. Bucky followed; he broke eye contact when Sam did. The air was thicker than blood, and it felt right to look away in shame, but it felt thrilling when they caught the other glancing at one another.

Sam sighed as he ran a hand across his hair and down to the nape of his neck. “Maybe the, um,” he struggled to take a breath in as his eyebrows furrowed, “the EXO-7, hm,” his eyes then began to water as he took in a shaky breath, “made me an undercover operative…”

Bucky shook his head furiously, laughing at the irony. “It’s not your fault. Things… happen,”

Sam looked away, setting his fingers on his lips as his eyes gathered a sadness within him. “Is it bad— _wrong_ when?” he whispered, almost in disbelief and disassociated with himself; Bucky carefully stands up and sits beside Sam as well as setting his head onto the tearful man’s shoulder. Bucky wrapped his arms around Sam gently as he closed his eyes and listened to Sam’s voice, “Oh God,” Sam gasped, clasping a hand on his mouth; Bucky squeezed his eyes closed, bracing for the next words, “she was only so young when… and… _ugh_ … I kept it from her,”

Bucky wouldn’t admit it, but he felt like sobbing too. “Where did you sneak to know this?” he asked after a pause, his voice as gentle as he could let it be without alarming Sam with his own sadness.

Sam shook his head, sniffling as he said: “Where _didn’t_ I look?”

A cool breeze swept by, rocking the boat lightly as the air filled with the stench of the decay in the lake and the sounds of the quiet sniffles of the two men, huddled together with arms on another. Bucky would caress Sam’s bicep as the man let himself lean into Bucky’s touch, occasionally being coddled and reassured with kind words that were murmured between them, only to be lost in the heavy winds that begin to conquer the atmosphere. Bucky would breathe heavily as he lets Sam rest on his shoulder blade, and he’d murmur things in languages Sam couldn’t recognize; these things only happen when Bucky was stressed and out of focus, and Sam became appalled by the idea that _he_ made Bucky this way, all drowned in concern and fright, it changed the man before him.

Bucky’s lips hovered above Sam’s ear. “I’m scared too, Sam. You’re not alone,” he whispered in between sharp breaths.

Sam nodded, humming as he couldn’t coherently assure Bucky at the moment, being that he was too indisposed in his arms that he became so full of sensation.

Bucky rubbed circles on Sam’s back, and after that, Bucky plants a hasty kiss on Sam’s forehead. “Don’t do anything,” in one swift movement, Bucky had carried Sam, bewildered, to the opposite seat and positioned him there. Bucky had sat in what used to be Sam’s seat, taking the ores as he proudly states: “I’ll sail us,” he began his task of rowing, and he did it almost effortlessly, “Did you know I always wanted to be a pirate?” he snidely remarked.

Sam looked up with puffy eyes, sniffling as he forced a frown. “Now you’re just making shit up,”

Bucky shook his head. “I ain’t fuckin’ with you,” he chuckled when his happiness was too much; Sam was smiling for goodness sakes! “When I was seven, I read a story about _pirates_ ,” Bucky nodded as he said it, “and it was all I could ever think about. I had the whole getup. Well, except when I used a trash can lid as a shield to ward off bullies,” his face contorted to one who was remembering something faraway as he rowed the boat, “which Steve affectionally called, the ‘fucking peg-legged freaks,’”

Sam chuckled. “Dirty mouth, huh. And, what, seven-years-old—”

Bucky laughed, nodding. “Seven-years-old. I swear, the moment Steve cursed them out, the moment they stopped fighting the damn child. Well, that is until highschool started, so,”

Sam nodded as he lounged on his seat, his arms either side of the boat as Bucky sailed them faster. “I can’t wait to tell everyone, especially the old man, about these _embarrassing_ things,”

Bucky scoffed, his eyes grazing the figure of Sam’s relaxed body. “Embarrassing? Now hold on, Harlem, you’d only feed his _ego_ ,”

Sam playfully facepalmed, grunting as he said, “Gah! What was I thinking? Of course!” Bucky laughed as Sam fixed his lying body, “No, no, I’ll only tell Rhodes,” he pressed a hand over his heart as he says this, “I promise,”

Bucky pointedly glared at Sam. “You better,”

The air becomes quieter as Bucky continues to sail them, a grin on his lips as a light blush graces his cheeks. Bucky’s eyes never met Sam’s again, but he seemed to want to with the way his body language defies his wishes. _Oh_ , to give a name to what he feels, maybe that’s what he needed to do first. It was too early to contemplate his thoughts. It was barely past eight in the morning. Bucky swears Sam’s sleep schedule is going to kill him.

Sam, however, easily drowned himself in the softness of the harsh winds, as if he knew which was rough and pure like the back of his hand. He sighed, humming a tune as his foot tapped along to the beat; he almost forgets his breakdown a while ago, and he feels lightheaded because of this. It was only rarely that his friends would end up finding him breaking down into pieces, unable to form coherency as Sam loses himself in his emotions; they’d bring him back out, as always, and Bucky was no different, but, Sam thinks, Bucky _was_ different, in some aspects. For one, none of them ever kissed him; well, Sam would begin to notice that he’d get kissed sometimes ( especially Natasha; that’s the few things she’s only ever done, really ), but the way Bucky had kissed him, so gently and so tenderly.

It’s different. Better.

Sam smiled quite fondly at the thought that ran through his head. “They’re gonna love you, you know,”

Bucky holds onto his breath, his rowing faltering a bit. He gathered his senses as he began to row the boat even faster, sighing as he said: “I don’t… know. I mean,” he smiled, but Sam didn’t think it was genuine; it didn’t reflect in Bucky’s eyes, “this other James sounds really fun from what you’ve been telling me about, but…” he shrugged as he looked past Sam, “they have the common sense not trust me,”

“Thor doesn’t. Steve talks about you to him, I’m pretty sure Thor loves you.”

Bucky sighed. “How about you? Do you love me?” he said, his eyes leaving Sam’s, “Where’d you find me first? Steve or the news?” Groaning, he tilted his head back as he said this.

Sam hesitated. “Freshman year. Then, um, my sister, Sarah,” he rolled his eyes, “may God help her, uh, had a thing for you…”

“Oh my God!”

“I know, What’s she thinking?” he put out some wild hand gestures as Bucky looked up at Sam with wild eyes, “Anyway, yeah, looking through my homework, she begged me to take her to the Smithsonian, and that with being pulled by her friends,” his tone seemed tense as his eyebrows furrowed, “I now know that you spend your free time dancing late-night sneaking into clubs which… are… yeah,” Sam bit the inside of his cheek as he looked away, “and that you wanted to become an astronomer,”

Bucky stopped rowing, the boat abruptly stopped at the other side of the lake. Bucky swallowed hard as his eyes locked in Sam’s curious ones, and not once did Sam fail to notice the way Bucky’s hands gripped the ores. Bucky shook his head, his eyes wide as he looked at the far bottom left, and Sam knew he was trying to remember something but was locked away from the door that led to the memory.

Bucky gaped, then closed his lips as his cheeks grew a sickly pale. “Can you blame me?” he chuckled dryly, his eyebrows fixed into a knot, “Mary was a clever one,” but he seemed unsure, “met her when Steve sketched her from far away for me. She’s… real ahead of her time,”

“You are too.”

Bucky nodded along with Sam’s hum, and was it just them, or was the air getting hotter here? The heat was rising in their blood, but it felt nice, to just feel that warmth inside of them begin to make itself exist between them. It’s just nice to be here together.

Then, the air seemed thick with the heat, and they couldn’t help but scratch the back of their heads and bite down their lips, well, because _maybe_ it finally became too awkward to deal; maybe it was so, and now that they have found the boundary, maybe they should diligently follow that line.

Bucky clicked his tongue as his eyes darted to Sam. “Uh, so!” he picked up the ores and began rowing once more, “It’s your pick on Movie Night,”

Sam raised his eyebrows, double-taking as he leaned back into his seat. “Ah, really? Huh. I was looking forward to watching Disney,” he scoffed at the end of the sentence, his eyes now playful and bright as they landed on Bucky’s pondering expression.

“What, really? That was a joke, I swear. I’ll never take your turn just to self-indulge,” Bucky spoke, his eyes squinting in the sunlight.

“Nah, I wanna,” Sam sighed as he looked off at the side, “You gotta suffer the point when animation turned into 3-D,”

Bucky screamed, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, don’t tell me!” He then rows even faster, and Sam took his time on watching the way Bucky exerted himself under the warm sunbeams.

No sooner had they finally reached land. Sam had looked over Bucky’s shoulder and dramatically sighed in relief, which only made Bucky laugh twice as hard than before due to the face that Sam had made; their smiles reached their eyes as Bucky docked the boat to the port, their yacht right at the other side of the dock, sitting idly as it swayed a bit from the waves.

Bucky was the first to get up, offering an arm to Sam, who in his happiness, had ignored Bucky and went out of the boat himself. The force of Sam’s exit had sent the dinghy rocking, making Bucky bend on his knees and grab hold of the sides of the boat; Bucky had made a few yelping noises, to which Sam replied immediately with offering his own arm which Bucky abruptly grabbed hold of even when the boat still shook. After Bucky had finally stepped foot on the dock and tied down the dinghy had they both sat down on the edge for a moment and just _felt._

It’s here that they sat a bit apart from each other, thinking that the other would want some space, when in actuality, after that whole mess of a boat ride, they were exhausted, drained, and wanted nothing more but to cling onto the other for support; the other always gave the best support, and never failed to be that one shoulder you can lay against. It was too good a virtue to waste.

Sam smiled, getting into the yacht with ease and begins to side-eye something at the side; he then raises a fishing pole, Bucky laughing at the way Sam had twirled it like some twirling baton before he raised it and setting the tip of the pole beside Bucky’s eased shoulder. “Argh!” Sam says with a thick accent, “Come here, my first mate; hoist the sails and raise thy anchor, we’re to explore the seven seas!” Sam couldn’t help but laugh at the end, his demeanor vanishing as soon as it came; Bucky only watched with awe-filled eyes, completely mesmerized with the way Sam moved.

Bucky shook his head, a grin daring to creep on him. “That’s just a fishing rod,” he snorted at the end, turning his head away when the pole had tickled him in the neck.

Sam mockingly widened his eyes, taking a few steps back as he brought the pole closer to his body to inspect it. He scrutinizes the fishing rod and its red paint, nodding as he said: “Ay, it is,” he then loses his accent, but he still holds his demeanor as he leans against the pole, his eyes settling into Bucky deep in the man’s soul that made Bucky backtrack, “Good job, Jamie, which is why I’m captain,” Sam suddenly swung the rod forwards and swings it sideways, as if fencing; Bucky would say it was terrible fencing, but he didn’t want to spoil Sam’s fun.

Bucky had let a grin grace his lips, rocking on his heels quite boyishly as he tenderly spoke: “My Captain, oh, Captain,” his eyes had some sort of sadness within them, and as Sam had stopped to grin at him, they were basked in the wallowing silence that threatened their peace, “I don’t— I don’t want to lose this. I’ve become too attached, Sam, and…” Bucky presses a knuckle to his lip as he looks away, only to look back at Sam with all the sadness in his face, “ _God_ , I love it but I hate it too much to be happy to forget it. We’ve been together alone for so long, I just don’t know how to manage when more people come into my life,”

Sam nodded, taking a deep breath before saying: "I don't know what that feels," his eyes darted away from Bucky as they looked faraway — as if out of reach, "I’ve lost too many people, I don’t what to do with myself if any more leave," He meets Bucky’s eyes, and Sam wished he didn’t. Sam could feel himself break down into pieces, already struggling to keep himself together, because _this was a stupid idea anyway_. But, we shouldn’t think like that, now would we

Bucky was touch-starved and he could feel it nip at his bones. He couldn’t help himself but go into the yacht and bring Sam close to his arms; Sam had obliged and buried his lips into the shoulder blade of Bucky, closing his eyes as he breathed in the man’s scent. Bucky had brought his hand to the back of Sam’s neck and waist, his chin resting against the nape of Sam’s neck. They were at peace like this, just swaying so gently and subtly you wouldn’t think they were in the first place; they held each other close but their atoms begged for more, and it seemed they were soon to combust into flames if they took too much space or too less of space.

Bucky gasped. “I love you, man,” he whispered, dragging his hand up and down Sam’s spine.

Sam breathed for a moment, taking in the air the atmosphere had stolen from him. He shook his head as he says: “You didn’t need to vocalize it,” he licked his lips as a tear slid down his cheek, nuzzling his eyes into Bucky’s hoodie, “You’ve already screamed it too loud,” and they laughed for a moment, feeling lightheaded at the softness they were subjected into.

They stayed like that for a while; they were alone in the world, but together, somehow. The universe had let two wandering souls interconnect, and maybe that’s all we needed for now. Their atoms were tired from buzzing, and maybe this is the hallelujah they desperately needed. For who are they to rest their aching bones so willingly, when the whole world said they shouldn’t? Who are they but two shattered hearts, too tired to even complain?

They let go of each other, eyes wandering elsewhere; the air seemed relaxed and too warm to realize or even acknowledge that, well, maybe it was awkward.

They both looked into the land to avoid each other’s gazes, and it seemed like a stupid mistake. The land on the other side of the river was almost empty, it’s unsettling. It ruptured those weak and easily disturbed, and they shared the same chill that ran down their arms, feeling goosebumps build on their skin, and they had to resist the urge to share a knowing glance before the air became more sinister.

The sense of emptiness in the field was one of sensibility, making oneself vulnerable and threatened to the point of decay. It crept onto skin, and one would say it’s addicting, when in fact it is destructive. The vacancy within the field was horrific, for one could already see dead souls roaming the vast territory. Bloody lips and green bruises, the dead walk among the living, and there are ghosts that haunt these woods, unafraid of staying bound to earth.

Bucky looked over his shoulder to see their dock on the other side of the wide river, so minuscule and blurred into the horizon, Bucky couldn’t believe the time that had just passed. He feels the same chill from before run down his spine, and there’s that sense of danger in the air that threatens his world; the world hasn’t moved without him yet, and he’s only going to get more stubborn.

We cut to the next day, and it was a windy day with the sky filled with graying clouds conquering the skyline. The porch door suddenly whipped open, Bucky storming outside with hands clenched in fists, eyebrows furrowed deep almost connecting to his eyes. Alpine followed diligently, trying to catch up with Bucky’s great quick strides. Bucky passes by Sam who had just retrieved his shield from when he threw it, and neither had exchanged any type of greeting.

Sam lets Bucky go away, and Sharon suddenly appeared from behind him, heaving and frowning with concern. “I told him,” she breathed out, “He didn’t take it well,” Her hands were on her hips, her hair a mess as they both watched Bucky get away and walk aimlessly towards the dock.

“Shit,” Sam muttered under his breath, swinging his arm before looking back at Bucky with concern painted on his features. “So goes Tuesday, huh,”

“Yeah, no shit!” Sharon cussed, her eyes in a frenzy.

As Bucky disappears into the horizon, Sam couldn’t help but let himself succumb to the pang that reverberated in his chest. For who was he, a simple man, who can only trust in his own resources to build something considered _great_ ? He was Captain America, and out of all people, Steve was insane enough to pick _him_. There’s that great conflict within him that clashed against each other, making him doubt his actual prowess and ability; he knew he could do it, but why couldn’t he?

Captain America is a symbol of service, so how come he hasn’t been able to serve Bucky?

Being the carrier of the mantle, Sam realized a few more responsibilities he had to take. It wouldn’t take long for him to develop the depravity and sorrow that comes with the forevermore burden of the shield as if sucking away the life that is within whoever yields it. It ticks, and it _kills_ ; the power that the name itself possesses was a far greater threat than the one who opposes it, and it stabs the sky into a million shreds of colors, making the atmosphere unfit for flight and exploration. The sky had abandoned Sam, and so Sam takes his own fight on the ground.

The angel has now been grounded, and it would be considered an absolute purity within the apocalypse if it were not the clipped wings and crooked halo humanity has painted upon the poor absolute. Angels were said to be jealous of people, yet people don’t know much of these facts.

Bucky was a good distance away from the house now, as he craned his neck to see Sam and Sharon blurred in the background, and Bucky could almost see their distressed and concerned expressions painted disgustingly onto their faces as he walked faster now, almost jogging as Alpine runs along him.

Bucky, despite his growing spite for him, was thinking of Sam. Seeing Sam wherever with his shield, it does it for Bucky. It makes Bucky afraid of leaving the man alone, because what if he’s hurting himself again? Bucky wouldn’t be there to pull Sam out when that happens. Bucky didn’t want to see Sam hurt, blue and green all over, flushed out of color, with fingertips chilled — to be so _inhumanely_ hurt. That does it for Bucky; what it does for Bucky, it’s second-hand pain, the kind of pain that isn’t fruitful and is all manipulating.

It’s because Bucky is loyal, it’s his middle name, it’s his sole reason for being on this earth, his sole _passion._ What would that make him, leaving Sam to suffer, alone and vulnerable, in a world that seemed unfit for almost anyone, even Sam, who fucking dropkicked helicopters mid-air as a job, Bucky’s hero? This insatiable need to follow someone to the ends of the earth would sooner or later kill Bucky, and so what if it does, later on? To die for Sam — bless the man’s soul — let Bucky marry this peace.

Maybe it did kill him, so many decades ago, in the icy winters in the mountains of Russia, in the plains of Sahara, and in the waters of the Pacific. Had HYDRA actually successfully killed James Barnes, or was it just that he couldn’t seem to feel his own skin?

Fuckin— Bucky wasn’t even sure of his own religion, and he’s out here completely baffled by other people’s problems.

As Bucky stepped foot onto the hardwood planks, he finally notices the figure standing with their back towards him, so still and so vague in frame, Bucky couldn’t recognize if it was even human.

Bucky instinctively placed a hand on the gun slung in his thigh holster, taking careful and calculated steps as he approached the figure. The person had been adorned with a large navy coat, and that’s all that Bucky had been able to navigate himself through scrutinizing this man ( or, at least what he expects to be a man. He hasn’t taken yet to ask for pronouns ).

Alpine had set off for the yacht and had successfully climbed in from the plank set up. Bucky clenched his jaw as he finally got a good look of the man, of who he thought was of rich and high qualities, from his slicked hair and his shining shoes, Bucky wouldn’t be surprised if this was one of those overzealous CEOs or insane government officials Steve had told him about once upon a time.

It was neither of the two.

Helmut Zemo raised his eyebrows at the gun pointed blank at his face. “Oh. How welcoming,” he spoke, dry and raspy that it almost came out like a whisper, almost drowned out by the whipping wind.

Bucky hissed as he stepped forward, “What are you doing here?” His voice was practically a low growl.

Zemo looked over at the far horizon to catch a glimpse of the Old Victorian house that sat in the vast field. He couldn’t see the two other people, for it was too far away, and Bucky relished in that silent savior. Zemo casually hummed, nodding subtly before speaking: “Do you live here? Oh. I didn’t know. I thought I was just casually… uh, trespassing,”

“I should ask the same thing to you,” Bucky spoke, monotone in detail yet gruff and low as a viper, his voice almost a toxic sweet that seemed like it should belong to Hades, “Aren’t you supposed to be going through therapy sessions right now?”

Zemo paused for a moment, and at his immense bafflement, he laughed right at Bucky’s face; his hands were shoved into his coat pockets, and his eyes closed when he laughed. Zemo excitedly said, “Now _that_ implies a lot of things,” he cleared his throat afterward, and had only let a slimmer of a smile rest on his lips for a fraction of a second.

There’s a faraway crackle in the far distance which stopped the two adversaries, urging them to listen in through the harshness of the winds. They both turned towards the direction of the house with a cross and muddled looks, still at attack with each revibrating bullets in their aching bones. There’s a faraway tap that echoed through the air, and then, Sam’s voice, coming through like an angel in the final battle against Thanos, calling out for Bucky for lunch, and apparently it’s Random Karaoke Night with Sharon, prompting Bucky to sigh in relief with closed eyes for the ultimate save of the year.

Zemo simply stared past Bucky, and it took him a few minutes to say, “I’m not really here am I?”

Bucky wasn’t snapped out of his daze, and only ever followed the weight of his shoulders towards the house, saying with such roughness: “You’re not real,” Ultimately leaving what he thought was his imagination to the emptiness and eeriness of the docks as well as the haunting river.

The bedroom was blanketed in darkness, and all you could ever hear was the sound of your heartbeat pounding in the silence. All Bucky, as he was cuddled under his blankets, could hear was Sam’s quiet snoring and Alpine’s purring. There’s ticking in the room that came from the clock that was hung above the doorway, but the ticking seemed to come from every corner of the room, mocking Bucky and his sleep schedule. He couldn’t sleep, and he was afraid that if he began twisting and turning, he might wake up his favorite boy and girl. So he lays still, eyes on Sam’s bed opposite his between the window, watching the rhythmic breathing of the Captain and the tail of his cat.

Bucky’s pissed that Alpine chose Sam instead of him, though.

Bucky looked around the room to tire himself. All he sees is the bedside table under the window that stood between their beds, the wardrobe door before Sam’s bed which was _kind of_ (Bucky would admit, he never stepped foot into Sam’s side of the bedroom) pushed under the other window, and the shelves that were hung at the foot of his bed. The room was quite small now with the two beds, but it was the tightness that made it so comfortable. The room was well kept, as it always has been; none of the two had bothered to make it feel like home. The only sign that the room was even used was the clock that struck one in the morning and the lone polaroid picture of old Steve taped by their shared windowsill.

Bucky doesn’t see Sam’s shield

Bucky’s eyes darted back and forth as he searched for the red, blue, and white design, hoping he’d soon hear the _claaaaang_ sound that sometimes happens in the night when Alpine plays around with the shield. But, the shield still isn’t there, and Alpine has been nuzzling into Sam’s chest for the past hour or so.

His eyes settled on Sam's sleeping figure, and he felt his breathing hitch at the back of his throat. _There goes my Captain America_ , Bucky thinks, _Me, oh, my, my Captain America._

Bucky still hasn’t seen the shield or anything that could’ve clued him as to where it went. He felt his chest tighten, but he continued to breathe; he reminds himself that it’s not his and that it’s Sam’s choice on where the shield would lay. There’s a nagging feeling at the back of his head, though, that rings church bells, alarming Bucky of the danger that choice brings upon them.

It would be this feeling that would urge Bucky to move and go sit down on the hardwood floor to meditate. He’d relieve himself of stress, and he’d feel all better now. The world would begin to slow down and stop at its axis, and he’d never feel the burden of his actions on his shoulders just for a moment. Bucky would breathe freely: inhale and exhale, he’d be free from turmoil, just for a second longer.

He’s usually noisy when he meditates, you wouldn’t believe it. He hasn’t got that hang of yoga at the moment, which was why.

He didn’t want to wake up Sam, too. The Captain needs his sleep.

“Hey. Hey, you.”

Bucky perked up, sitting straight as his eyes widened in fear. “The fuck?” he whispered under his breath as he looked at the wall by his headboard.

“In the bed, you nitwit.”

Bucky looked over at Sam snuggled in his blankets. “Oh,” he sighed, “It’s just you. I thought it was Baba Yaga or something,”

“Isn’t that—” Sam furrowed his eyebrows, burrowing under his blankets even more to the point that Bucky only saw the man’s eyes.

“Yeah,” Bucky then murmurs something in Russian, rubbing his eyes.

“Shut up,” he drowsily said, as Alpine nuzzles in the crook of Sam’s neck, “Go back to sleep. You weren’t raised with Russian folktales nor are you a child. Don’t believe them,”

“Yeah, but the Black Widow was a folktale once,” Bucky laid back down in his bed, his blankets tangled around his bare legs, “now look at that. There’s probably more of them out there,”

Sam hesitated: “More?”

Bucky hummed. “Yeah, I mean—” he sputtered, “No. I don’t know. I’m old and grumpy, grr, don’t listen to Russian folktales,”

“I’ll keep that in mind though.”

The room fell into silence, one that was too thick for tension. There’s a blanket of doubt in the air as the wind shook the windows downstairs. There was a sense of fragility, one they haven’t experienced before, but it felt odd to have it out here so bare and expansive. It took up space, and if it weren’t for their proximity, they would’ve been choking on the tension that radiated between them.

Bucky whispered in the air: “I'm sorry I kissed you this morning. I couldn’t stop myself,”

“Is that why you can’t sleep?”

“No. Not really.”

“Then go back to sleep.”

“I can't. My head's spinning with thoughts.”

Sam propped himself up on his elbow, Alpine moving towards his head. “Thoughts of what?”

Bucky propped up on his elbow as well. “I don't know. Tomorrow?"

Sam blinked. “Sounds terrifying,”

“I know,” Bucky plopped back down on his bed, glancing off to the wall, “What's going to assure me that I'd wake up?"

"I'll wake you up."

Bucky stirred in his bed, saying, "Wow,"

Sam lied back down. "Wow, what?"

"Nothing," Bucky shook his head, "I just… I’m thinking of something,"

“Hmm,” Sam’s humming was edging on a drawl, quite rough too. Alpine purred beside him, “Well, say it then. Alpine wants to know,”

As they lay on their sides, they met eyes; it was too dark to realize it, but they both knew they did when they felt a chill run down their spine. It was exhilarating, one that sends off fireworks and burns the sun in an everlasting blaze. It’s a chill that is driven by a sword and a feather, so light yet so rough at the same time, it seemed hellish in a sense of intoxication. There’s a huge gap between them but their gaze met and bled into each other, wanting to melt in the view of the other so badly they felt the need to suddenly meet in the middle and lay there on the rug. Their atoms began to buzz, but when they met eyes, they slowed down, and it _is_ impossible to think so, but they felt a drumming in their chest that seemed too unreal to debunk.

Bucky sat up, suddenly, “Where’s the shield?”

Sam mimicked him and turned on the lamp, enveloping the room in an orange glow just as the thunder roars outside. Alpine scurried to the other side of the bed but Sam didn’t pay her much attention at the moment, giving himself time to run a hand across his face.

Bucky became panicked, his eyes wide as he sat on his bed. “Where— Oh my God, where is it, Sam?”

Sam hesitated, blinking rapidly to get the sleep off of his eyes. “The-The shield?”

“ _Yeah_ , the shield,” Bucky snapped, his hands raised, “C’mon, I—” he fumbled and almost tripped on his own feet trying to stand up.

Sam suddenly stood up, hands running down his side. “It’s downstairs. As it always has been,” his face is one of guilt as he watched Bucky almost seem to go down in a spiral. Sam felt his breathing hitch as Alpine meowed in the background, and it all came too fast, Sam wouldn’t be surprised when he heard his own heartbeat clamoring in his ears.

Bucky licked his dry lips as he crouched on the floor, taking his time to say, “Why is it downstairs?” and if he wasn’t panicked then, he was now.

“I’d go get it—”

Bucky shook his head, his eyes filled with blank fear as Alpine came over to him. “It’s— Why—” he breathed out.

Sam planted a kiss on Bucky’s head, lingering for a small moment before rushing out the door, leaving it open. The room was suddenly sullen with silence, the comfortable kind this time. It didn’t thunder unnaturally, and it was a relief when it did; the silence was threatening the last few times, and the change of scenery was just so right. Bucky could hear himself think for a moment.

Bucky let himself breathe in heavily, drawing it out quite smoothly. He could finally hear his own thoughts, and it seemed crazy to think that he _can_. In so many silences where he could not be heard by anyone and himself, he could hear his own heartbeat in his chest so lightly and naturally. He likes the way it beats, fluttering in concertos as heat manages to rush to his cheeks, his head heavy and light at the same time. He couldn’t recognize the feeling and thought he was getting sick at the moment.

“He kissed me, Al,” Bucky whispered under his breath as he ran a hand on Alpine’s head.

Sam suddenly barged into the room and sets the shield leaning against the nightstand. He goes to his own bed and snuggled under his blankets, eyes curiously watching Bucky as the man sat criss-cross on the floor, almost delirious.

Bucky felt the bile rise to his throat, and he stopped breathing as he felt it. There’s an ache in his head that aches his heart, and he had to drop Alpine from his arms to clutch onto his bare knees for support. His nails left marks, and his eyes became a haze of colors as he felt his head droop at the side. There’s something rising in him, and maybe he was getting sick; the vagueness of it all caused him to think it was a suppression turning into his own oppressors, and with this thought, he went back into bed, slowly and staggeringly as he snuggled closer to Alpine.

Sam asked: “Why were you scared?”

Bucky took a moment to regain himself, gasping, “I don’t know. It was instinct, actually. It felt like that,”

Sam shook his head. “You weren’t like this before,”

“You mean it wasn’t always in here?”

Sam feels his breath hitch in his throat. There’s a sense of disappointment within him, and it’s not for Bucky, unfortunately, but for himself. The question rang in his head: _The shield wasn’t always in here?_ Fucking idiot! It should’ve been with him at all times. What kind of Captain America is he without the shield? Sam felt his chest harden as he failed to hear his heart drum within him as if reminding him that he was empty inside. He knew the shield wasn’t what decides who holds the mantle, but, again, it’s a symbol of _defense_ , and right now, he didn’t feel as if he had defended Bucky the way Captain America would.

Sam spoke, almost breathless, “I didn’t think it should be in the bedroom. Weapons aren’t usually in the bedroom,”

Bucky fixed himself in the bed, his mouth agape in exaggerated shock. “Sam, wha— I’m a _spy_ and you’re a _soldier_ , we _sleep_ with guns or we die,”

A silence washed over them, one that took longer to overthrow; that is until, Alpine wails in the middle of everything.

Sam spoke, “The time I stopped wearing my thigh holster, I felt so free, Buck,”

Bucky frowned, his eyes glinting under the lamplight. “Sounds perfect. I can’t imagine it,”

“Tell me.”

Bucky feels his heart drum in his ears, his mouth left dry as he croaked out, “I- I think it was winter, or something— Somewhere cold,” Sam had propped himself up on an elbow as Bucky narrated, “Steve didn’t have his shield with him and almost took Jones’s and Morita’s lives,”

Sam had furrowed eyebrows as he whispered, “I never heard of that,”

Bucky shrugged. “Of course. It was probably fuckin’ Nazis instead of HYDRA,”

“They’re both Nazis, Jamie.”

“Yeah, but one is ambitious and one is actually doing something, what’s the difference,” Bucky’s voice became harsher as he said this, eyebrows crossed with red flustered cheeks.

“I’m sorry. You wear a gun when you sleep then,” Sam nodded, getting comfortable in his bed.

Bucky bit the inside of his cheek. “Everywhere, Sam. I’m sorry. You must’ve felt so safe around me,”

Sam smiled. “I still do,”

They stayed like that, basking in the warmth and easiness of one another. They didn’t move, afraid that it would change this simplicity that the universe had spared them. They’d eat this up forever, and they’d still feel an empty pit in their stomach.

Alpine gets up from her position behind Bucky, and goes down the bed and back into Sam’s, snuggling on top of him.

Bucky gently whispers: “Damnit, Al, I need you,"

Sam smirked, his eyes playful, “Then get over here then,”

Silence overcame the atmosphere, and Bucky almost choked on thin air when Sam said that. Sam went to turn off the lamp when Bucky didn’t make a single word. The room was then basked in darkness and a fraction of moonlight, and Bucky could feel his heart become enraptured in blissful passion, revibrating in his ears that almost deafened him. He could feel his hands grow cold as they shake between his thighs, trying desperately to keep calm. There was something with the way Sam had said those words with such tender caress that ultimately made Bucky’s mind haywire with giddiness.

He didn’t understand why he felt such a way, almost overcome with numbing happiness.

He liked it though.

Bucky looked over at Sam’s bed, only to find the man asleep with moonlight dancing delicately upon his features, almost enamoring to anyone.

Bucky murmured something under his breath, distressed at his own incoherent thoughts.

The next morning, Bucky finds himself stopping his snorts when he was woken up by Sam tripping face-down from his own shield, creating a loud thumping noise that could wake up the birds next door. Bucky buried his face deeper in his own pillow to seem as if he didn’t see anything, almost regretting not waking up to his own cackling wonder.

We cut back to the kitchen area where Bucky was washing the dishes from breakfast, stealing glances whenever Sam pulls back to throw his shield, striking it so mightily to the trees. After last night, Bucky endured a sinking feeling that makes him just want to hurl and crawl into a hole, but also sing the highest praises and jump off the cliff and sit silently in the pouring rain on the docks. _Yes_ , Bucky is in a frenzy, his mind going absolutely nuts at the very feeling he gets from the man Sam Wilson, and— _God_ , it just feels so good it should’ve been illegal; it makes his body go absolutely unhinged at the very sight of Sam, and it’s so foreign that the mere idea shouldn’t even be presiding within him.

The word “unhinged” entered Bucky’s mind and he’s completely still, almost dropping the last China plate in the house as he met eyes with the one and only Sam Wilson; it didn’t matter. It wasn’t Sam on his mind. It was the man on the dock. What a dick that man was.

Bucky quickly turned off the faucet and cupped his dripping hands around his mouth to yell, “Yo, Sam! Gotta ask something!”

It takes him a few tries, but Bucky has finally grabbed Sam’s attention. Sam had his shield strapped to his arm as he sauntered over, sweating and heaving in his grey shirt, and Bucky could only think, _What a sight_. Sam stepped over before Bucky by the window and raised an eyebrow and breathed out what Bucky makes out to be a sign of confirmation.

“Very important question,” Bucky spoke up.

“If I have to say ‘I do’ or ‘Yeah, I’ll help you hide the body’ then you already know the answer,” Sam joked, setting a hand on his hip as he stared off at the vast horizon of the river, almost miniscule yet gigantic in his view.

Bucky chuckled, shaking his head. “Uh— Yeah, um, no—” he laughed, bowing his head to hide a smile, “I need clarification,”

“Oh. Wow— I’m— Somehow relieved.”

“Oh my fucking—”

“Shut up! Shut up!” Sam gasped as he said this; Bucky scoffed in the background, dramatically setting the back of his hand on his forehead, “I mean, I feel like I could answer the question. _Jesus_ , Buck,”

Bucky nodded, tilting his head. “I know,”

“Shut up, go. What is it?”

“It’s, um,” Bucky bit the corner of his lip, eyes set diligently on the potted cactus on the window sill, “How’s it outside?”

Sam shrugged. “Warm,” he looked around as he said this, but his eyes fell serious when he continued, “Manhattan has been getting a lot of fires somehow,”

“You just— Fuckin’ went there.”

“You want me to go through the list _gently?_ ”

Bucky sneered, looking away as he ran a hand across his growing stubble. “Alright, uh, how’s Sharon? Anyone targeted?”

Sam frowned. “I don’t think we’re talking about the same person here,”

“We’re definitely not,” Bucky dragged out, almost hesitantly, “I don’t want to drop the bomb too soon, but since we’re not doing that—”

“I have a list I can _hand_ you.”

“—then I’m not doing that. Keep your list,” Bucky interjected, trying his best to meet Sam’s with the fire still glinting in them, “Zemo. I’m talking about Zemo,”

“I was… I wanted to tell you.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

Sam shook his head, sighing when he couldn’t meet Bucky’s broken eyes.

Bucky whispered, “I’m not fragile,”

“Well, look at how you’ve reacted,” Sam snapped

Bucky raised a hand, his eyes wide as he hissed, “Well, now that it applies to me, I want to know,” his face was flushed red, and their proximity almost closed, “Whenever it applies to me, to you, to whoever I fuckin’ know, I want to _know_ ,”

Sam paused for a moment, relishing in his own mistakes now written into stars. He’d given themselves both time to regain their wits from when they were absolutely run on bullshit and whispered underlining threats. _Keep this from me, I won’t talk to you_. It seemed like kindergarten insults, but sometimes those kinds of insults hurt more when it comes from someone you admired for so long.

“Don’t you know how I feel about this?” Sam breathed out, almost spitting the words out as his body turned away from Bucky; his own eyebrows were furrowed and his lips crooked into a frown, “ _How_ afraid I am right now?” His free hand shook behind him, and he had to shove it into his pockets to keep them restrained, “You’re not the only one batshit _petrified_ , James, there’s a lot of people out there, too. The world’s gonna fuckin’ end, and I’m not going to hold your hand through it when I need to hold my own. The world needs to kick its own ass right now, and it’s not gonna happen if you keep telling the world you’re not breakable— Because, one day, you will break under the world as it kicks your ass instead of hers, just like everyone else has,”

Bucky was stunned silent, and all he wanted to do was wrap Sam into his arms and plead prayers into his ear, because _this was exactly what he needed_ . The wakeup call. The ignition. The _fire_ that sparked in his emptiness. It’s a sick twist in the gut, but it’s the exact poison Bucky needed to feel at the moment. Sam was right, _but when was he ever wrong?_ The world needed to kick its own ass, and maybe even pull out the stick up in her; Bucky would be there screaming with the rest of the population as the world burns, but the burn would feel _good_ , the burn would feel _exhilarating_ because they’d all knew this wasn’t the end— _it’s the death of the ending._

Bucky nodded, snickering, “God, I love you,” he whispered with all the fondness of his heart; Sam triumphantly raised his chin, as if acknowledging his own greatness, “I’m just worried for both of us. I hope you understand. I’m sorry,”

Sam shrugged, “‘S alright now. Just don’t get kicked off the world,”

Bucky grinned, laughing now as he said: “Hey, you think we can bring Alpine to the real world?”

“Ah, Barnes. I think the world just met her champion.”

The late afternoon weather called for sunny with a slight chance of rainfall, and Bucky had found it as the perfect timing to go back into the docks and face whatever demon tried to claim the it because for sure he remembered Rhodey claimed the dock first with a raise of a power drill before Clint Barton and Thor Odinson even finished their part on building it.

He reached the end of it, sighing in relief when he found nothing but their yacht and dinghy. Bucky and Sam had just gotten from town grocery shopping so this was an exalted relief. With a giddy smile, and a slight terror within him that realizes he must’ve been hallucinating the man, he began to make his way back to the house to help Sam cook dinner. It’s the least Bucky could do.

 _Shit_.

The fucker is still there, and he’s fucking _real._

Bucky hastily grabbed his holster below his coat and aimed it directly at Zemo’s face, sort of breathless from the sudden reappearance of what Bucky assured himself was a mirage of sorts, which was kind of stupid really because mirages can’t be people. Maybe. His mind is unhinged once more, and he could feel the decay in his bones as he mustered small curses.

“I thought you weren’t this person everyone talks about…” Zemo plainly asked as he had his hands once more deep into his coat pockets. His eyes had a trace of fear within them, and something more haunting than just revenge. It wasn’t revenge, really; he was past that. Something irked Bucky when he had the faintest idea of what Zemo had feared reflected in his eyes, “Am I wrong?”

Bucky slightly raised his gun in a failed attempt of aggression, but his eyes harden at the mere sight of the man, and no sooner had Bucky’s jaw clench and grip eased with calculation, easing himself quite smoothly into the demeanor of a man of great many skills that the mere mention of his name could tower empires.

Zemo tirelessly said, “Желание,” _Longing._ “Ржавый,” _Rusted_ . He was bored when he said though, and Bucky couldn’t figure out what the man was aiming for, but he got it at the third word, “Семнадцать,” _Seventeen._

Bucky couldn’t tell if the day just got better or worse.

Bucky had his jaw clench tighter than from before, biting on his tongue as he let out small groans and whimpers, his hands shaking to give in to the act. He almost had to internally punch himself in the gut with the way Zemo bought it. With writhing hands and jagged breaths, Bucky’s face contorted to one of internal conflict as each word flooded his ear, and he felt it, _oh_ , how he felt himself decay into the trigger words.

The man was bored, in some way, though.

Zemo raised an eyebrow as if trying to wake himself up from his own inflicted boredom. “Eh… Рассвет,” _Daybreak._ “Печь,” _Furnace._ “Девять,” _Nine._ “Добросердечный,” _Benign_.

Bucky had had enough and began to dismantle his own Glock, his eyes set diligently on Zemo as Bucky continued for him, “Возвращение на Родину,” _Homecoming._ Bucky pulled out the magazine of the gun with a bit of a fumble, but not too much that he seemed like in a rush, “Один,” _One_ . He easily accessed the magazine and sets it on his gloved metal hand, ”Товарный вагон,” _Freight Car_.

Bucky had his eyes watching every muscle movement on Zemo’s face. Bucky poured the bullets right in front of the man with the blankest face he could conjure, and Zemo couldn’t help himself but glance down at the golden cartridges that fell out of Bucky’s hand. They glinted under the sun, and everything felt askew as those cartridges fell down to the planks, some falling in between gaps while some bounced from the force of the fall. Zemo’s eyes went back to Bucky, only to see the man so full of himself, his eyes almost smirking at the way Zemo had failed to perceive that Bucky was better now. _Bucky won’t lose to him_.

Zemo spat. “What do you take me for, an idiot?” his accent was thick as the corner of his lips quirked into a scowl, “I was more successful than the Loki god, of course I knew you were better,”

“Not surprising,” Bucky snorted as he puts back the empty magazine in his gun and into his holster, not once leaving eye contact with his foe.

“So, Wakanda. Sounds amazing.”

“You have no say in my autonomy.”

“Yes, but look at what I did,” Zemo grinned quite sinister as he motioned for the whole expanse of the property they were standing on, and Bucky didn’t know what was sicker: the idea that Zemo knew Bucky healed in Wakanda or the fact that Zemo thought he had placed a domino-effect that led Bucky right where he wanted him.

Bucky spoke through gritted teeth, “You did nothing to evoke my happiness,”

“I know.”

“Get lost.”

Zemo tilted his head, saying, “Don’t you want to know why I’m here?”

“No, but I can sue you for trespassing,” Bucky spat, pointing an accusing finger at him, “Get lost, Baron,”

Too indulged in the spur of the moment, Bucky barely had the time to notice a figure approaching them. To Bucky’s horror, it was _Sam_.

“Fuck!” Bucky yelled to the wind.

Zemo is left standing alone when Bucky met Sam at the other end of the dock, both of whom were almost distressed and bewildered, although, the former seemed to be the most out of it among the both of them. Bucky tries to hold Sam back, already preparing a string of apologies and soliloquies as Sam only crosses his eyebrows together, more confused than mad.

It’s only when Bucky looks back at the dock that he realizes Zemo is gone.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Bucky whispered under his breath, not even realizing that Sam was tracing his hairline.

“Hey, _hey_ ,” Sam said, continuing to run his hand through Bucky’s hair as the man continues to grip on him like a lifeline; Bucky’s fingered gloves pinched his skin, but Sam was too preoccupied with carrying both of their weight when Bucky had almost buckled on his knees, “It’s okay. I’m here. What—” Sam looked back at the dock as Bucky continued to murmur nonsense, “—What’s going on?”

“Dinner,” Bucky gasped.

“What?”

Bucky patted Sam’s chest, gasping for air as he nodded. “Beer. Cold. Uh, food. Dinner. Date. No, wait— Dinner. I need dinner,” he stammered, guiding Sam out of the dock despite the man planting his feet firmly on the ground, watching Bucky spiral.

Sam stood Bucky in place, and they began to both breathe with each other. _In_ . They took a deep breath in, all nose and mouth for Bucky. _And out_. They exhaled, almost a pant for Bucky. They did this several times before Bucly finally had a grip on himself, but still not leaving his hands from Sam’s biceps.

Bucky swallowed down the sickness that rises in his throat and tried his best to look at Sam straight in the eye. “Hey,” he whispered.

Sam shook his head, looping Bucky’s left arm over his shoulders to help guide Bucky. Bucky had leaned into Sam’s touch, already feeling the tender caress of understanding revibrating from the man’s bare skin. Sam spoke as they walked out of the docks: “The house is pretty empty when you’ve been away for too long. Let’s go inside,”

When the sun had set, leaving sunrays of bright pink and yellow to dance in their living area, Bucky had most of his mind calmed down, but he hadn't told Sam. _No_. What would the man think?

Bucky is tucked in on the bottom of the beanbag as Sam sat on it. Bucky held onto a worn-out copy of _The Great Gatsby_ as he looked up at Sam practically glowing under the orange light of the lamp that stood beside them. Sam sighed drowsily, almost heavily, as he fluttered his eyes closed, leaning his head back a bit as the TV set drowns in the background quite unwillingly.

The living room was almost bare, as one lone velvet chair sat in the middle of the room right before the flat-screen TV, a beanbag before the chair, and a lamp extended right beside them. There were no more picture frames displayed, nor there were any curtains. They’ve gotten into leaving every window bare of curtains and blinds, and it’s not long before they finally leave the peace that they had both found here for the past six months. _Six months_ and they’re leaving this beauty for some suburban household of Sam’s in Washington, D.C.

Bucky looked up at Sam one last time to see the man fighting against sleep, eyes peeled the slightest as eyelashes curled against delicate skin, and Bucky’s breath hitched at the sight of the colors dancing on Sam’s features. The room had been dressed in a blanket of navy blue, and not before long, the sun had fully set and the room was enveloped in darkness. Sam was stiff as a stick, Bucky noticed as he leaned into the man’s legs, practically in between them. Sam had repeatedly sighed for the past hour, and Bucky wasn’t tired of hearing him sigh— only tired of having to reread a page over and over again just because he got distracted by Sam.

Bucky had thrown aside his book, forgetting to bookmark his page; He stood on his knees in front of Sam, successfully blocking the man’s view of the news channel, his hands on either knee as he whispers excitedly, “Let’s go stargazing,”

Sam raised a hand as his eyebrows knitted together. “I thought we agreed we’d cook when you get to chapter ten?”

“You dick, Gatsby only had ten chapters.”

“Really? I thought it had eleven chapters.”

Bucky snickered, slapping Sam on the arm before getting up from his knees. “Come on. I want sandwiches,”

“You’re a monster if you think we aren’t eating burgers.”

As the porch door opened to reveal Bucky carrying a picnic basket and Sam carrying a duvet and a few pillows with Alpine trailing right behind them, they were immediately hit with the chilling air of the twinkling eve. The birds were quiet and the crickets were singing, all in a good mood for some stars as they winked up above, scattered like spilt diamonds on a black velvet carpet, so beautifully arranged it made their hearts sing out in joy.

They’ve reached the dock and have set their pillows at the end of the dock where they can swing their feet however they want. They’ve indulged in the burgers they had both prepared before they even got the chance to help each other get under the same blanket. They hummed in delight as juice dripped from their lips and stained their hands, getting too into it to notice the literal heavens opening up for them, revealing an array of halos that brightened each time you’ve given attention to them.

Bucky had only brought them to the middle of chilling winds near a river of all things because he wanted Sam to clear his head. He knew how comforting it was out here, so why not have Sam discover this gem before it’s too late to go back?

“Why you jumpy,” Sam speaks with a full mouth.

Bucky stammers dramatically, mocking Sam as he asked, “What— What— What was that?” he cupped a hand to his ear, only to have Sam jokingly push him away, both of them erupting into laughter.

Sam wiped sauce out of his lips, saying, “Why are you jumpy?”

Bucky scoffed, biting into his burger, “I’m not jumpy,” he hesitates, his mouth full as he says this, swallowing it down in one gulp, “You, what’s up with you?”

“What about me?”

Bucky framed his hands into a rectangle, aiming at the sky before landing them on Sam, and Sam laughs at the ridiculousness of Bucky when the man tries to reenact what was supposed to be a Director finding the right spotlight. “ _There,_ ” he grins as he says, and Sam poses just to entertain Bucky, making sure the photographer got the right angle, “We got our Captain America ready for showtime!”

Sam snorted. “Yeah, but are the people ready?” He says it casually, but Bucky couldn’t help but dissect something more dreadful than something so simple.

There isn’t a moment where Bucky doesn’t think Sam has got everything steady, because, in reality, Bucky knows Sam hasn’t gotten it. Sam talks in his sleep, and sometimes it’s terrifying how the man would simply get up from the bed and wander the hallways, dead and tired like a restless ghost. Sometimes Sam would hover over Bucky’s sleeping body and recoil from wanting help. _Hey, everyone needs someone_ , Bucky would say, but what would pride think?

Sam’s beautiful, and Bucky’s afraid that that beauty might disappear, but it’s not the looks Bucky’s afraid of— No. It’s the beauty of Sam’s character that Bucky is afraid of losing; it’s a constant in his life now, and Bucky feels his heart grow ten times bigger every time Sam lets himself become loose and relaxed, away from the shield and close to the sky, almost engulfed with a beauty that is unmatched to the sun. The man’s passion was more ever blazing than one of the sun, and Bucky fears that Sam might one day find himself melting from his own brightness.

Maybe Sam already had. That’s what keeps them both awake at night.

Bucky holds his pose for a moment, drinking in the sight of Sam, who had sauce stains on his shirt from when they cooked, but still so carefree and excited and _scared_ of being who he was born to be; to be human, to be like _Sam Wilson_ … it hurts Bucky to want something so badly, even if it was as simple as a gentle embrace.

“I’m ready,” Bucky said, breathless as his hands slowly gather in his lap, his face painted with an impeccably soft look of admiration, “I’m ready for the greatest things you’ll ever do,”

Sam finds his smile faltering, his eyes turning to one of disappointment, because _God, another one that expects so much from me_. Yet, it’s Bucky— It’s Bucky “I’ll follow you to the ends of the world” Barnes, the guy who will fall then rise just because he can. Sam can already sense the loyalty that Bucky radiates off of him, and it’s so addicting and contagious that Sam can’t help but lean into that warmth, whether it would scorch him or not; it just feels right to do so; it’s relaxing, and it’s comforting, and a constant that no one can take away from him.

It’s a moment, then it turns into a minute.

Bucky feels his world tilt off on a balance, absolutely succumbing to the prowess and power Sam had over him. Bucky would let Sam, all over again, conquer and destroy him if it meant that he’d follow the man to hell and back, heaven to earth, sun to pluto, multiverse to multiverse. He’d do it in Sam Wilson’s name. He’d do it for—

Bucky would do anything for a moment like this, literally falling in love under an inky canvas sprinkled with striking white splotches, with crickets, bodies of water, and winds performing an opera show just for the two of them, eating messy burgers they made in the shared home that they’ve built together. _See_ , maybe this is _peace_ , maybe this is _worth it_ , maybe this is what the world was supposed to give them.

It’s beautiful how Bucky had managed to admit to himself he’s taken quite a grand liking to the man smiling before him. It’s magical. _Sam’s_ magical.

They lean into each other’s touch, now shoulder to shoulder. Sam chuckled under his breath, shaking his head, saying something about a movie they have to watch soon. Bucky’ll watch it, despite not being a big fan of the rom-com Sam rarely watches, he’d even give up his turn just so they could watch all the rom-com Sam would need, and yes, Bucky will promise he’d suck it up at every horror movie Sam throws at him.

They weren’t silent as they went through dinner; Bucky kept the air alive as he pointed out constellations for Sam, who feels too content in their space to say anything other than hums of approval and the occasional snicker that were brought up during Bucky’s lame jokes. Bucky feels like he’s on cloud nine, while Sam was too at ease to open his eyes.

The next cut we take, it’s more sinister than some river. We’re back in the same panic room in the Wilson and Barnes household, and it’s still as eerie as we left it. There's dust clinging to the walls and crates as well as the sunlight that streamed in from the open wall, and there’s a slight rapping noise at the walls, one that seemed disembodied from this reality. There’s still the weapons from last time, and some of the crates were now pulled open.

Sam sat on one of these crates as he jots down notes in a tiny notebook, marking a number right beside several names of weapons and their ammunition. His eyebrows are knitted together in concentration, a bead of sweat trickling down his neck to stain his shirt. It’s here that the wind couldn’t touch him, and it’s here that the monsters from the slope had probably made their home. No one knew where the panic room came from, and Sam was too anxious to ring up his sister to ask about it.

Alpine was sitting on his lap, purring as Sam ran a hand through her fur. “You look just like the cat I have back at home,” he whispers as a smile crept onto his lips.

At the mere mention of her, Alpine went off and went onto another crate in front of Sam. This crate had a radio set sitting up on top of it from when Sam had tried to set it up, interchanging wires and cables for the entire morning, only to realize he hadn't put up the small TV box that came with the set.

There’s a chill that ran down Sam’s spine, a knife that went down cold to his skin, extracting every little warmth that Sam could ever have in that room. It shouldn’t be like this. There shouldn’t be suspense lingering in the air like this, all bare and raw to the carcass, the very thought of it seemed absurd, but what other explanation would be possible?

Sam whispered under his breath, “Sarah, what were you hiding..."

Sam stood up and brought the crate he was sitting on closer to the radio set. He tinkered with a few buttons on the radio set, setting aside wires of different colors, almost blending into each other as he brought out of the box the small TV box almost just as big as Alpine. He sets it on a nearby crate as he pulls out a dashboard of equalizers of sorts which was attached to the two devices; he tinkers some more after plugging in almost three extension cords that started in the kitchen to the panic room, and it’s only after a few more treacherous scorching heat and low buzzing that he’s gotten the whole thing to work.

White noise wafted into the room as the TV box displayed a multicolored screen, a censored and pixelated black and white logo displaying itself for a few moments before Sam had turned on the dial on the device, and slowly and surely, the TV box regained clearer pictures and began to display, from what Sam assumed, camera feeds scattered through the property.

It was a grid of three: a view at the familiar stretch of road that leads to the house, a view of the inside and outside of the house that routinely displayed each room for three seconds at a time before moving onto the next room, and then the biggest grid, the docks.

Sam clenched his jaw as he released air from his nostrils, carefully moving the dials of the equalizer to his desired degree right until he hit it. _Sound._

He quickly picks up a pair of headphones from the floor, quickly dusting it off as he sets his wide eyes on the screen. He puts one head against his ear and plugs in the input plug right in the radio set. He dials up the volume through the radio set and equalizer at the same time; it’s frightening how he manages to figure all of this homemade technology in one morning, and what’s eerier is the sound that goes through both of the heads now, slowly dwindling down into recognizable words.

The TV box displayed what Sam realized were Bucky Barnes and Helmut Zemo, with a distance between them; the live recording was a bit pixelated, with a few slow hiccups running routinely through the live feed, but it was _real_. The two spoke in what Sam recognized as Russian and broken English, and it’s eerie how the live voice feed seemed to be crystal clear. As if the microphone within the faraway camera has been able to reach such a radius.

Sam only understood a few words uttered between the two men, but he understood fully. He hastily writes the words he knows in a new page in his notebook. Alpine made loud noises in the background, and Sam tutted at her until she managed to keep quiet. It’s quiet in the background now, and Sam could hear his own heartbeat drum in his ears, almost hearing a dull ringing in his ear. The words flew right into his hearing so crystal clear, he didn’t really believe that the tech in here was ancient. It seemed to be masked as old, but it’s all brand new; Sam was able to understand it, so it wouldn’t be farfetched to think it had the intense and vast technicalities of the twenty-first century.

Sam bit down his tongue, being careful at not mouthing the words he writes. If there were any cameras outside, then it definitely meant that there were cameras in the panic room as well.

_Coverup. Operation closed. Romania. Hospital. Dream. Delusion. [redact] on Big Apple. Out on the water, leads to [redacted]. August fire. Falcon Op. Record [r]. [r] up on [r] with Ross. Bitchin’ about [r] and Ross ain’t happy [r]. Agent Ever[r]. Slovakia. Prague. Get lost. Fuck off. Hop off the highway and [r] with Wilson and [r] [r] [r] to Stark. Yes, I know about Stark. [r] arrow. Agent chosen. Target identified. [r] Wilson. [r] Wilson. Wilson [r]._

_Close call. Ross [r] [unintelligible]. [u] [u] [u] Carter. [r] book. Didn’t have it. Burnt it. Government is sick and completely [u]. Wilson would get [u]. No, he doesn’t have to know._

Sam slowly watched the conversation dwindle down, and to his horror, Bucky simply left the man alone.

Sam set a hand on his beating heart, his mouth dry as a carcass as he tried to catch his breath, feeling his soul waver at the very thought of Bucky under Zemo’s control. It startled him, _baffled_ him because how on earth had Zemo even got here if he was dusted and came back in his own cell? Even so, was Zemo always this resourceful or is his sister’s house just on craigslist nowadays?

Sam removed his headphones with limp hands, almost fighting with himself under the pressure the world has set on him once again. His blood runs cold as he steadied his breathing, swallowing down the ache he feels in his chest. The ache was terrible, succumbing him to a wave of doubt and anxiety, it shouldn’t even be possible to feel this much _betrayal_. It wasn’t Bucky’s fault, that Sam knew, but the idea that even Wakandan technology, the kind that is almost as fictional and great as Atlantis, was barely enough to keep Bucky safe from his own demons? It faints, it wavers the faith Sam has left.

Knowing that something was overcome only to realize there’s a far greater threat out there—

That’s what people _fear_.

Sam shook his head as he quickly dismantled the wires and cables from the devices, Alpine in the background watching her other father go into a frenzy. Sam felt the desperate need to hide the evidence, and even though it might not make the whole situation disappear, _maybe it will_. People hide things to forget them, is Sam not allowed to?

He shuts the crate after putting back the TV box, radio set, and equalizer into their own crates, heaving heavily as he finally gathered his thoughts and sensibilities. He shuts his eyes as he breathed in heavily, releasing the ache of his soul that gnawed on the idea that perhaps this was truly the way things should go. The life of a… _superhero_ is different from a civilian, and Sam is no longer that civilian. He now kicks ass for a living. Life will never turn into a soft epilogue for him, and it will no longer slow down just because he said it could. Life would be whizzing speed and whipping winds, dragging Sam into a frenzy of war and screaming.

Sam shuts his notebook closed and sucked in a breath. “Oh my fuck,” he whispered to himself, “I’ve gone mad,”

He quickly flicks through the small Moleskine notebook and skims through the words he’s got written down. It spans over four pages, all back to back, his writing as scribbly and shortened as possible. No one needs to know this.

Sam hears the screen door bang open, and Bucky yells out, “Hon! I’m home! Ah, who am I kidding—” Sam couldn’t smile at that; Sam shrunk down as he pocketed the notebook into his waist jeans, shushing Alpine as he fixed back the crates.

It’s here that he _knows_ that people don’t know things despite the news being so over-detailed these days.

It’s now that the fact that people _will_ get hurt comes onto the table with a loud clang, banging up walls and floors with its presence. There’s nothing anyone can do when a force of this magnitude comes knocking on one’s door; it’s an unexpected terror that lurks, and Sam thinks that the monsters that crept in the woods were safer than the ones the real world had just offered. It’s an off-hand situation, one that takes you aback with no warning whatsoever; it’s a clinging thought that seemed to keep you awake late at night, and now that he’s here, Sam couldn’t take it.

Zemo was smart; he knows how to play his cards. It’s a nervous thought, one that could kill someone’s sanity by the mere mention of it, and Sam feels his mind decay at the possibilities that this new terror has come upon them. Sam knew he was ready for whatever terror the world throws at him, but he’s weak now—he's tired—he’s exhausted. He hasn’t even done anything yet but he felt himself slumber through the bones. He couldn’t do it, but at the same time he knows he _can_ ; it’s because Sam saw it as a chore, ain’t it? Ah, knew it. It’s tiring, and he hasn’t done it yet.

Sam shuddered at the thought of his own exhaustion. He needed his sleep.

It’s now nightfall, the living area drowned in darkness as the TV played another Mission Impossible movie, as Bucky always does. Sam was sitting on the beanbag, stiff against Bucky’s foot as he took another bite of toast and eggs. Bucky was on the chair, his eyes focused diligently on the TV as he took another bite of his bacon. They were having breakfast for dinner tonight since it was Bucky’s turn to cook, and Bucky could only make toast, eggs, and bacon without burning half the kitchen (with the exceptional excuse that he can’t seem to cook anything dinner-related).

Bucky sipped on his water before saying, “That looks like that Clint guy you work with,” he nudges his foot to Sam, and there it was, Clint Barton on TV.

Sam shook his head, already had this conversation with several other people already, but it’s nice to sit like this: unbothered by the world, in each other’s space, watching _Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol_ as if they weren’t supposed to be packing at the moment. There was still a lot of work to do around the house before they leave a month from now; they had to “remove any evidence” as Sharon had said, and they had scraped up most of it.

That’s why the only thing that made the house seemed like home was them two: alive and well, together and alone. They didn’t think life would put them two together, but it felt right to; it was the only thing the universe did that they would allow. They wouldn’t allow pain or worry to enter their lives, but they’d wholeheartedly bring each other into their arms anytime.

So it eats at Sam to ask this question: “Where were you this morning?”

“Hol’ up,” Bucky said, turning down the volume of the TV with his mouth full, “You’re not my wife, why must you ask?”

Sam furrowed his eyebrows, mouth agape at Bucky’s choice of words. “Did you just compare me to your non-existent wife?”

“Please, Sam, I’m hungry and this movie is _so_ good.”

“I saw you by the docks, just don’t lie to me.”

Sam feels Bucky stiffened against him, so he leaned his head against Bucky’s leg as he continued to eat, eyes watching the TV screen with a sense of worry that seemed to take a life of itself. Sam felt his heart rise to his throat, and he couldn't seem to gather himself enough to say something in retaliation. Knowing that Bucky was awkward about speaking it wasn’t enough; Sam wanted more of that. Sam wanted Bucky to _know_ without having any more words spoken between them.

Sam just wanted _Bucky._

Bucky’s face was fallen, sullen with a pang of sadness and regret that washed his soul with disgust and dirt, staining him with a flurry of guilt that he felt should be _his_ and that no one should take it. He needs to blame himself. He thinks, _How could I?_ Sam didn’t deserve much more pain than he already has, and if Bucky did love Sam—

Sam.

Bucky.

Sam shouldn’t be in this mess

Bucky feels his soul leave his body as soon as Sam holds onto his leg. Sam hummed as he does this, his hand wrapped around Bucky’s leg as he continued to watch the TV with searching eyes that needed a distraction. The TV screen wasn’t enough. Ethan Hunt wasn’t a good enough distraction. So, Sam looked up at Bucky’s wide eyes, and he was immediately overcome with a need to assure himself that maybe this isn’t real. Maybe he was just dreaming, because Sam didn’t think Bucky would gaze upon him with a look of pure admiration as if Sam created the sun himself that kept him alive and warm from the cold that nipped outside.

“I was,” Bucky choked out, almost sobbing at the end. His eyes were shut closed as his lips fought to release a scream.

Sam ‘s eyes trailed downwards as the thought settled within him. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he whispered, twisting his body to face Bucky, dinner now forgotten.

Being openly vulnerable in front of Sam sends a shiver down Bucky’s spine, shuddering at the idea that Sam fully trusted him even when he betrayed the man so deeply it left a mark. Bucky couldn’t help but breathe heavily, setting a hand on his temple as he felt his chest rise and fall in quick speeds as if leaving him breathless with too many emotions.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky cried out, his voice barely making out the words. Sam’s eyes were softer than starlight, and so Bucky fell into Sam’s lap, his legs sprawled on the floor as his arms made their way around the man’s shoulders; Sam embraced him right back, setting a chin on Bucky’s shoulder blade. Bucky whispered: “I’m— God, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I should’ve told you— You were the smart one anyway, you would’ve known what to do— I-I just thought — Oh God, I left him to wander, fuck, Sam—”

Sam shut his eyes closed, bringing his lips to Bucky’s ear to say: “It’s okay. It’s fine,”

Sam only felt the weight of the situation when he found himself releasing a few heavy breaths, blown away by the audacity of the universe for what it set them up for. Sam laughed, shaking his head at the moment they had fallen into. It’s strange, and out of routine, but it felt nice like that—alien and intrusive, it was just what they needed.

Sam didn’t pull away when he spoke: “What do you think we are?"

Bucky did, his eyes searching for a slimmer of hope in Sam’s eyes. To be honest, Bucky didn’t know anymore; he just wanted to melt into Sam’s arms and feel the ache in their bones numb themselves into oblivion. They’ve been restless for too long— When will sleep ever come?

“What _are_ we?” Bucky breathed out.

To be fair, Sam didn’t know who he was anymore.

Struck with a moment of identity-crisis, Sam felt the dire need to lie down and just rot into the earth and come back with new atoms. He’s been tired for too long, everything felt like a dream. That trip through the river? It was a dream. That dinner by the docks? It was also a dream. The panic room? Who’s to say it was real? Decayed and unfruitful, Sam wouldn’t mind if the world decided it was his time, and to become enraptured with that idea is to be suicidal, but he was always a little bit as so, just not much that would initiate anything. Sam was just reckless, is all; he didn’t he’d lose that one day, too.

Everything felt rough and tasteless to his tongue, Sam would lick copper blood from rusted knives just for the fun of it, but that’s not what he needed right now. He always knew better, but sometimes he felt that maybe better is just plain bullshit; maybe better is just worse, and maybe this isn’t that and that shouldn’t be what. Sam knew these weren’t supposed to be his to possess, but he’s been deprived of rest for too long, he’s dreamt that every single thing that comes along his way is for him to take care for.

He wasn’t supposed to take care of Bucky. His life shouldn’t revolve around the man. Sam would gladly set off and dropkick Bucky to the nearest train station if he could.

Sam couldn’t. It’s not in his nature, but tonight, it may be his actions.

Sam just didn’t know what was real and a dream anymore, they both blended beautifully into each other, that he didn’t feel the need to open his eyes. He’d just _see_ it, and he’d feel content to the bone; he’d savor it for a moment, and that’s where he’ll have it.

Sam whispered, “We’re partners. The Falcon and the Winter Soldier,”

“Captain America and the White Wolf,” Bucky shook his head, his voice raspy and dry.

“We are what the world presents,” Sam licked his lips, his face barely an inch apart from Bucky’s; they could feel each other’s breath caress their faces, but the proximity felt too far away despite the actual lack of it. They needed to _feel_ each other—something, at least, “We are what we represent the world with,” his eyes had a glimmer in them that made Bucky feel excited. His own eyes made Sam feel alive to the brim, almost overflowing with emotion as he fixes himself on the floor, “Whatever name they let us, let them. Fugitives or not, hell, they can't take our name from us. Not even Zemo,”

“You’re amazing,” Bucky blinked as a smile slipped on his face, his heart reaching his throat as his chest felt empty from the overflow of love.

Sam grinned and takes the opportunity to boost himself. “I know,”

Bucky returned the smile, his own growing wider each time he caught stars entering Sam’s eyes. Sam looked rejuvenated, and that’s the reassurance he needs. “Guess what, though,” he spoke as he fixed the beanbag and their plates so they can sit together, “Zemo failed to control me. It was, what Shuri would be proud of me to say, _iconic_ ,” he snorted as Sam snickered, snuggling close to each other as Bucky restarted the movie from where they left off, dialing up the volume as Sam drank his orange juice.

Although he does see himself smile, Sam still has that lingering thought that poisons his head, making him small and vulnerable to anything that may stand in his way, but as he glances at Bucky’s wide and interested eyes watch the TV, maybe it’s okay to feel afraid once in a while and show that you _are_ afraid; no one’s judging, and if Bucky could go from crying to becoming absolutely invested in Jane Carter kicking ass, then Sam can absolutely do it too. It’s human, and Sam _is_ human despite Bucky’s belief that he could fight a helicopter if he wanted to.

Sam finally said with a heavy sigh, “I’m scared too,"

Bucky looked over to Sam with bacon still in between his lips, and despite that, Bucky smiled at Sam so full of admiration. Bucky scooted closer to Sam and draped an arm around the man, bringing Sam closer to his warmth, as they both let themselves rest aimlessly through the movie.

The sun shone through bare windows the next morning, and the living room was empty to the walls and to the floors, only leaving the flat-screen TV on. It displayed the live news this morning, and the segment had cut towards a clip of what Pepper had been warning Sam and Bucky about: the attackers of Manhattan, of uniforms of an ugly brown and yellow, as if a copy of the Falcon suit, and Bucky had a few ideas why they were designed as such.

Looking around the house, it was empty, strangely enough, when the two didn’t even finish unpacking. The sun shone through every window, basking every hallway with light, and we even see the panic room empty, cleaned up of every assailant and ammunition Sam had listed down.

The river was flowing fast, and no boats were on sight. On the front lawn, there was no car. Even Alpine hadn’t made an appearance.

The TV screen drones out in the distance, as the news reporter speaks of the chaos Manhattan has gone through, the emergency live feed shows the same instance in Washington, D.C., then Brooklyn, Miami, somehow, and then some more.

The Falcon and the Winter Soldier were not found on the property, but we don’t worry. We know where they are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! it's been a tough month of writing this, but i got it where i wanted it. also, you may have noticed some rumored FATWS spoilers in here, when in actuality they've been part of the plot way before I even read those spoilers. rip to marvel, but i'm different

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the post made by @wilsonsnest on tumblr, which turned to this!
> 
> This whole fic reads like a T.V. series with each chapter as an Episode; based on that FATWS trailer
> 
> Also, this is my first fic posted here so please be gentle,, thank you!
> 
> tumblr: @honestlyfrance (prev. @francehonestly)


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